


The Howl of Winter Winds

by ASMillen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, AU Northern Culture, Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMF Sansa Stark, But Sansa Sees Through It, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, I couldn't get this out of my head once I thought about it, Independent North (ASoIaF), It is Game of Thrones so Some Peeps Will Die, Joffrey is Still a Brat, Lord Baelish is Still a Creepy, Magic, Mature Sansa, Ned Stark is King in the North, Princes in the North, Princesses in the North, Probably some more ships that I haven't thought of yet, Queen in the North, Royal Politics, Royal Starks, Scars, Slow Burn, Sort of Based on Viking Culture, Swearing, Warging, Wargs (ASoIaF), definitely some fluff, emotional whiplash, king in the north, maybe some smut, out of order events, the north - Freeform, warrior Sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASMillen/pseuds/ASMillen
Summary: Eighteen years after usurping the throne from the Mad King, Robert Baratheon's heart gives out in his sleep from years of drinking himself to death. His eldest son, Joffrey, takes his rightful place on the Iron Throne to rule over the Six Kingdoms, but danger lurks around every corner in the viper's nest of King's Landing.The Starks have ruled over an independent North since Robert's reign began, but the newly-crowned king of the Six Kingdoms wishes to reevaluate the alliance between their two kingdoms. He offers a peace treaty between the North and South in exchange for Sansa Stark's hand in marriage.AU where Robert gifted Ned the freedom of his lands and people after they usurped the throne from the Targaryens.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 113
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter One

Standing out on the balcony attached to her rooms, Sansa Stark thought King’s Landing was awful and beautiful all at once. From her vantage point, she could perfectly see the Great Sept of Baelor and its gilded walls. It stood so tall and proud, reminding her of the stories about the king who had ordered its construction. Baelor Targaryen, a sovereign ruler known for being resolute in his pacifism and piety, starved himself to death during religious fasting. It made a pretty story for the High Septon to tell if he left out the part about Baelor imprisoning his three sisters in the Maidenvault.

Almost hidden by the glamor was Flea Bottom. Sansa had heard plenty of tales about the city’s most notorious slum. It was a dank, dirty place that most of the preening lords and ladies tended to avoid and look down upon. They made their dislike for this place no secret whenever passing by the hovel-like homes of the people who were so unlucky as to live in the streets of this district, or so Sansa had been told by the maids who immediately began chattering to her as soon as she arrived in her new rooms.

Before she left for King’s Landing with her royal father, her mother had made it clear to her that her duty was to form a marriage alliance with the newly-crowned king of the Six Kingdoms. Upon looking at King Joffrey’s kingdom, Sansa couldn’t imagine binding herself to the boy king and his lands. Already, she missed the snow and smell of pine drifting across the biting breeze. She hadn’t been in the southron capital for more than two hours, but she couldn’t wait until it was time to go home.

Unlike her mother, her father had discouraged a marriage with Joffrey from the moment they received the letter about King Robert’s death. He’d told her that she could make her own choice about it, but there were plenty of other options for her to choose from. In secret, hushed whispers, he told her of Robert’s wanton, alcoholic ways and his fears of how Joffrey might have inherited such a temperament from his father.

She’d be queen if she married him, Sansa knew. As a princess, she had been trained to one day be queen, even if her brothers would always have their turn to rule before she even wore a crown, but she blanched at the idea of being a queen in this foreign land. These people and their customs all seemed so frivolous to her after spending the entirety of her life in the North. The fashions they were and the clothes they ate seemed almost exotic in a nauseating way. Her father and Arya felt much the same.

Still, was this feeling of being a stranger bad enough to give up being a queen? After all, she had dreamed of ruling over a kingdom for as long as she could remember. Seeing her royals parents look so happy, yet stern on their thrones had long made her wish for the same. The simple crowns on their heads had always glinted in the sunlight just enough to make Sansa imagine one on her own head of fiery hair.

Sansa puzzled over these thoughts until a handmaiden sent by the king entered her chambers and held out a dress to her, one that she certainly had not brought from the North. Her hands traced over the thin fabric, shivering at the feeling of the soft silk underneath her fingertips. A dress of this material would never have been comfortable in the North because of the icy winds, but the South was still very much in the middle of a warm, beautiful Summer.

“His Majesty bade you wear this gift, Your Highness, when you greet him in the throne room,” the handmaiden said in a distinctively lowborn accent as she laid out the dress across Sansa’s overly-large bed. “He said it should fit perfectly as he had it made just for you with the measurements your royal mother sent by raven.”

“Thank you.” Sansa paused to think if the girl had given her a name to call her by, but she couldn’t recall hearing her mention one. She was a short girl, not quite Arya’s height, with brown curls and sea blue eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

The handmaid's eyes widened in surprise. “We’re not supposed to give our names to the lords and ladies, Your Highness.” Upon Sansa’s confused look, the girl explained, “The King says it is beneath his vassals to know the names of peasants.”

“That has to be the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” Sansa replied with a stern shake of her head, “and it simply will not do. Please, tell me your name.”

The girl’s eyes darted around the room for a moment, looking for all the world like a wild animal caught in a cage, before she finally answered in a slow, unsure voice, “Lauris, Your Highness.”

“Call me Sansa, if you must call me anything,” Sansa said, knowing that they would be spending enough time together that hearing the words _Your Highness_ so much would eventually drive her insane. “Now, will you help me with this dress? I’m not sure how to wear this style.”

“Of course, Your Highness—,” noticing Sansa’s eyes narrow, the girl stopped short of spewing her title again and went about her work. She helped Sansa into the dress, showing her how the long, flowing scarf of pastel pink fit into the belted bodice and flowed down to Sansa’s slippers. 

Aside from the scarf, the dress in its entirety was a pale yellow color with flowers embroidered into the long hem. The sleeves barely reached Sansa’s elbows and ended like the petals of some flowers she’d seen on the long journey to the city. Unlike in the North, the neck of this dress showed off Sansa’s bosom, instead of covering everything up to her neck. She supposed there was no reason for dressing warmly when the sun never quite left, except to bring rain.

Lauris helped her pin back her hair in a very Southron style full of complicated, looping braids that Sansa was sure she would have never managed on her own. It felt heavy upon her head, much heavier than the simple styles preferred in her homeland, but the red locks crisscrossed across the top of her head in a variation of a crown that was her very own. Red hair such as hers was far too rare for any of the ladies to look quite like her.

Locks like hers were even less common in the North than the South. Among the dark-haired people of her home, she was considered a beauty for her fair looks. Some had even dared to call her the Rose of Winterfell and because of the color of her hair. It had made her mother proud to hear of such things. Her father had simply grumbled something about men and red-haired women. She had the feeling he wasn’t quite happy with men finding his daughter beautiful enough for songs to be written about.

“You’ll be turning some eyes, Sansa,” Lauris said with a twinkle in her eyes and wide smile, though she stumbled over calling Sansa by her given name. “I’ve not seen a lady quite as fair as you in the courts for some time. I daresay you might outshine Queen Cersei herself.”

Sansa nodded her thanks, but she wondered if being beautiful was a good thing or not in these lands. Back in the North, being beautiful was a luxury few could afford. Most Northern ladies didn’t spend much coin on elegant fabrics for fine gowns or take hours to fix their hair into perfect styles because they had much more pressing needs to attend to, like how to keep their people fed in the harsh cold of winter. In the South, though, it seemed like all anyone wanted was to be the most beautiful person in the room. She had heard many tales of the queen’s raging jealousy of anyone that dared to outshine her.

Sansa’s head swiveled to the door when she heard a light rapping on the wood. She was met by her father’s voice saying, “Sansa, are you ready to meet King Joffrey?”

“Yes,” she called out as she bade Lauris a good day. When she opened the door, she noticed her father had somehow managed to make Arya look like a proper lady for this, rather than the street urchins the younger princess generally preferred to copy. Her father raised a brow at her dress, having never seen it before and knowing it wasn’t of the North. “Apparently,” Sansa sighed in annoyance, “Mother sent my measurements to the king.”

Her father chuckled. “Sounds like something she would do.”

The three of them made their way to the king’s throne room where the lords and ladies were already gathered to greet the royal guests. Arya lagged behind her father and sister, finding different things through the halls to be more interesting than walking in a straight line, but managed to catch up when the large doors swung open to reveal the crowded throne room and the king waiting in the famous Iron Throne.

The throne room was vastly different from the one where her parents held court. This grand hall had been gilded to perfection in Lannister gold. Red curtains of some fine fabric hung around the room, broadcasting the proud lion of the Lannister seal. The throne room in Winterfell was much more simplistic and comforting while this room was clearly meant to be a show of power, Lannister power. The king might be a Baratheon by name, but it was clear which house actually ruled the Six Kingdoms.

As they approached, Sansa forced a light smile onto her face, but she couldn’t help but study the prince with an uninterested eye. He was much younger than she thought, perhaps three and ten, and not nearly as handsome as the stories told. The Lannister beauty was evident in his face, but it was made ugly by the cruel twist of his lips and the cold spark in his eyes. In a throne crafted from the swords of the vanquished, he sat arrogantly enough that it could have seemed like one of the swords was his, but she was sure a boy as scrawny as he could never have managed to hold a blade for long.

When her family was merely a few feet from him, Sansa and Arya both bowed deeply, though their father, as a king, remained standing upright. Sansa’s curtsy was executed perfectly, as she had always trained for, but she could tell by the distaste on the king’s face that her sister’s had been less than great. If she knew her sister well enough, the girl had probably moved too fast and tripped over the hem of her own skirt, _again_. For Arya, it was a rather common occurrence.

“Let me convey my sincerest apologies for your father’s death,” her father said in a noble tone as he took a single step forward and placed his hand on his heart. “Robert was a good man and a loyal friend. I will miss him dearly.”

“Yes, we shall all miss him dearly,” the king replied in a monotone voice, almost sounding bored with talk of his dead father. “The Crown is glad to host you, King Eddard, and your _lovely_ ,” he stuttered over the word when his eyes flew past Sansa to land on Arya, “daughters.”

Sansa watched as her father inclined his head in appreciation of Joffrey’s assessment of his daughters. “I thank you for your hospitality and look forward to treating you, King Joffrey—”

“Is the elder one married?” Joffrey asked, thoughtlessly cutting off her father’s words.

Her father blinked. “Excuse me, King Joffrey—,”

“Is your older daughter married?” Joffrey asked again, saying the words slowly as if he were talking to an infant and not the king of a realm.

Sansa stepped up to her father and laid a hand on his arm before answering for herself in a clear voice. “I am not married, Your Grace, nor am I betrothed.”

“I see,” the young king said slowly as he scrubbed a single finger across the middle of his chin in thought. “Do you wish to be?”

It was Sansa’s turn to blink at the blunt questioning of this young man. “If the Old Gods see fit to find me a worthy match,” Sansa answered in the same clear voice as before, choosing her words carefully, “I would not argue against their will.”

The king’s eyes narrowed at her words, but he turned his gaze to her father’s as he said, “I think I have a way for us to continue our peaceful alliance, My Lord.”

 _My Lord?_ Sansa thought as she glanced at her father out of the corner of her eye. Eddard Stark was the King in the North and had ruled for far longer than the twerp sitting on that monstrosity of a throne. The use of such a title could only be seen as a slight against him and his lands. She wondered who had taught this boy king his manners or if he had simply forgotten them.

To her dismay, her father said nothing against the boy’s insult. “What do you have in mind?” was all he asked, seemingly unbothered by the barb. “I had thought the goodwill between your father and I was enough to allow our continued alliance.”

“I am not my father,” the young prince proclaimed, seemingly proud of it. “I believe the only way to preserve our alliance is through marriage.”

A shiver ran down Sansa’s spine at the word. _Marriage._ She had known, of course, when she decided to make the journey to King’s Landing that Joffrey was searching for a queen to rule by his side, but she hadn’t thought for a moment that he would actually use the peace between their two kingdoms as a bargaining chip for her hand. Some part of her had imagined wedding him and ruling the South, but most of those thoughts had died as soon as they got within five miles of the capital city and the stench of human waste had met them so richly she’d almost gagged. The last pieces of her that swooned at the thought of being a queen were crushed the moment she laid eyes on him.

If she were younger, Sansa imagined she would give anything to become his bride. She would fancy him a handsome prince, like the heroes in her favorite fairy tales. But now, at nearly seven and ten, she knew how men with eyes like his treated beautiful women like her. Marrying him would be trapping herself within a cage of gold, like the birds she knew some Southron ladies kept as pets. Sure, she would have all the luxury afforded to a queen, but she would never make her own choices. He would surely take what was his by husbandly rights and leave her to waste away.

Sansa didn’t have to look at her father to know that he hated the idea of her marriage to this young king. When she was old enough to learn that the only place in this world for a woman of her stature was marriage to a proper lord, her father had promised her he would find only the best of men for his daughters. _Someone_ _brave_ _and_ _gentle_ _and_ _strong_ was how he described the man he would one day find for his daughter, and Joffrey was not that man.

“My wife and I had discussed an arrangement between Sansa and yourself,” her father said with all the tact of a king, “but we chose to let the decision fall to Sansa herself.”

“What girl wouldn’t want to marry a king?” Joffrey asked confidently.

 _This_ _one_ , Sansa thought bitterly, but she managed to simply bat her long eyelashes in an alluring way and say, “It is a hard decision to make, My Lord. We do not know each other and marrying you would mean leaving my home forever.”

He simply rolled his eyes and dismissed them, but she could see that this conversation was far from over. Eventually, she would have to tell him the cold, hard truth: She would never marry a man such as him. Threatening the alliance between their lives for her hand was the worst move he could have made if he had hopes to gain her affection.

As soon as her family was back in the safety of the halls outside the throne room, Arya pulled her wild hair out of the nest of braids it had been wrangled into and snarled, “What a little brat.”

“Arya, you can’t just go around insulting the king,” Sansa hissed warningly. In Winterfell, they’d been able to speak freely, no matter where they were, but King’s Landing was notorious for being riddled with spies and the like. “The walls have ears in a place like this.”

Arya opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out when their father held up his hand and said, “Your sister is right, Arya.”

The journey back to their rooms was punctuated by a sullen silence, but it disappeared nearly as soon as they arrived in the small parlor they were to take break their fasts in every morning. Arya started chirping about anything and everything she’d seen, but most of her observations had been about the many knights she had seen just strolling about with their swords at their hips and dented armor clinging to their bodies.

Sansa's lips lifted into a small smile at her sister’s enthusiasm over the novelty. Knights were almost as rare as Sansa’s hair in the North. Northmen couldn’t see the purpose of having an entire sect of warrior men when every man in the North was trained to fight, not just the ones meant for knighthood. Of course, Northerners still respected the sacred rites of knighthood, even if the vows taken were not sworn to the gods of their father’s but to the Seven.

“What did you think of the king, Sansa?” her father asked out of the blue, cutting off Arya’s ramblings. “Tell me truly.”

“He was awful.”

“Aye,” her father nodded, “I thought so, too.”

“I know you said it was my choice,” Sansa sighed, wishing she didn’t have to bring this up, “but what if he really does wish for my hand to keep the alliance between our kingdoms alive?” She hoped that her asking these questions wouldn’t remind him to take away her choice. “Will I still be able to choose my fate?”

“I will not let you marry that worm, my daughter,” he reached across the table they sat at and covered her hand with his own, “I swear it.”

Arya snorted. “I feel bad for the poor girl that _does_ marry her.”

Sansa nodded in agreement. “I don’t envy her, that’s for sure.”

“While we are here in the capital, though, could you pretend like you are considering his offer?” her father asked, causing Sansa to frown at just the thought of being pleasant to such a man. “It will help us get through this visit easily. Once we return to Winterfell, we can simply write that you have been betrothed to some lord or the other.”

Sansa huffed under her breath, but she knew her father was right. It would make things much easier on them if the king thought they would have an alliance by betrothal at the end of their time here. “I suppose I can let him call on me a few times and manage to be pleasant.”

“Good girl,” he praised with a wink.

Sansa watched for a moment as he started to pour himself a goblet of wine to take with him to his study so he could work on some papers before dinner. Having nothing to do herself during the next few hours, Sansa announced, “I think I will make a trip down to the kennels to visit Lady before dinner. She’s probably a bundle of nerves in this strange place.”

“Take one of the guards with you,” her father ordered as he rose from his seat and started towards his study. “I don’t trust you girls to be alone in this keep.”

Sansa nodded, understanding his reasoning for that. She had felt eyes on her ever since they rode through the gates. All the men in this keep had been gazing at her as if they were starving and she was fresh veal. “Of course, Father.”

With a choice of nearly fifteen guards, Sansa chose a young man named Graige Slate. He was only a few years older than herself and a good friend of Robb’s. Over the course of their friendship, Graige had always been kind to Sansa whenever she followed her older brothers around, despite the teasing he got from the other boys. At one point, Sansa had thought that meant he fancied her, but the young man readily admitted that he just felt protective of his king’s children and that she reminded him of his own sister who died from sickness at a young age.

Sansa tucked Lady’s ball underneath her arm and hooked her other arm through Graige’s as they made their way through the long, twisting halls of the ginormous keep, another difference between the South and her home. Winterfell was nowhere near as glamorous as the Red Keep. It had no need to be. She couldn’t imagine why so many rooms were needed in the castle, especially since many of the lords and ladies of Westeros tended to spend their time in their own homes. It was a waste.

“Sheep’s bladder or pig’s?” Graige asked out of nowhere.

Sansa snapped out of her thoughts and turned a questioning look in his direction only to see him tipping his head towards the ball tucked under her arm. “Oh, sheep’s bladder. The kennelmaster, Farlen, made one for each of the direwolves when they were but pups.”

“It’s nicely crafted,” Graige complimented as he held out his hand for the toy. Sansa handed it to him and watched as he studied it, seeming to balance it as he tossed it back and forth between calloused palms. “Very nice, indeed. My father used to make me these, you know.”

One of Sansa’s brows rose. “Sheep’s bladder or pig’s?”

“Always from a pig,” Graige replied with a lopsided grin. “We had far too many of those squealing things running around.”

As far as Sansa remembered, Graige had grown up on a small farm outside of Winterfell. He had been prepared to be a farmer his whole life until her brothers rode by on their stallions, searching for something to do during one of the few summer days where the sun actually shone brightly. They coaxed him into play-sparring with them and discovered the farm boy had an innate ability to swing a sword from years of wielding work tools. After that, he began training to fight with them until he was good enough to become one of Winterfell’s guards.

She wondered, briefly, what her life would look like if she had been born nothing more than a farm girl, not a princess. All the luxury she had grown accustomed to in her life would not have existed on a farm. She would wear roughspun dresses that scratched at her soft skin, drying it up through irritation. The long, silken locks of hers that men so adored would be dull and lacking all of its natural luster. By her age, of course, she would be married, too, perhaps with a babe on the way. Her nose wrinkled on its own at the thought of that life.

“Do you miss living on your farm?” Sansa asked gently as they finally made it out of the keep.

Graige looked down at her with kind brown eyes. “Sometimes, I think I miss the simplicity of farming, the lack of danger that lies in that path, but I stand by the choice I made to protect House Stark with my life.”

That, the way he stated his loyalty so easily, was the reason Sansa trusted him with more than her own life. She would trust Graige with just about anything. Out of all the guards her family had brought with them to King’s Landing, Graige was the one she would go to if things went wrong, and there was always the possibility of things going wrong in a place such as this.

Sansa squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “House Stark appreciates your loyalty, _Ser_ Slate.”

“Now, Princess, you know I’m not one of the pampered knights these Southron lords have,” Graige teased back, though he did chuckle a bit. “Taking vows just to fight like any other man is probably the stupidest thing I ever heard of.”

Sansa gasped in faux-outrage. “They are _sacred_ vows, Graige.”

“Ooh, sacred vows,” Graige moaned. “Whatever shall I do.”

Their laughter followed them into the kennels as Sansa led the way to Lady’s cage. Her wolf’s head popped up at her master’s appearance. She undid the latches easily and pushed the kennel door open with a gentle hand. Not even a minute passed before Lady launched herself at Sansa, scattering wet, slobbery kisses along her pale cheeks.

“I missed you, too,” Sansa exclaimed as her wolf backed away, but her fluffy tail continued to wag crazily in each and every direction. “You’ve been such a good girl, haven’t you, Lady?” She brushed her fingers through the wolf’s thick fur. “Yes, you have!”

“You talk to her as if she were a babe,” Graige japed.

Sansa knew it was true. She treated Lady as if she were still the pup she’d nursed into adulthood, not a horse-sized wolf. The creature was her one true solace from a world that was always demanding something of her. Be a true lady. Be a proper princess. Be beautiful. Be a good wife to some man. Be betrothed to King Joffrey. While demands came at her from every corner, Lady only wished for a love that was more than easy for her master to give.

“She is my truest friend,” Sansa replied simply as she started to toss her ball up and down the length of the kennel, cheering as Lady all-but galloped to catch the ball in her sharp-toothed mouth.

Graige opened his mouth to say something, but it slipped shut when his eyes narrowed in on something at the end of the kennel. Confused, Sansa followed his line of sight to a large bundle of shadows in the corner. She didn’t see what he was so concerned about until she saw the dark shape move. Squinting, she made out the very crudest of outlines, but she couldn’t see any descriptive features. All she knew was that whoever was watching her was a large man, taller than even her father, and built like an ox.

“Is somebody there?” Sansa called out when Lady returned with her ball, feeling comforted by her protective pet’s presence, despite Graige’s warning grasp at her elbow.

A man stepped out of the darkness, giving her a full view of his features. As she guessed, he towered over everything in his path, especially her, and looked as strong as the Warrior himself. Her eyes traveled up his chiseled body to find his face only for her lips to part in a gasp. Scars covered one side of his face, though part of his inky hair covered what she believed was the worst of the damage to his skin. She decided he was not like the Warrior, at all. No, he was the Stranger incarnate.

 _He looks familiar,_ she thought as she cocked her head to the side in confusion. She was sure she had seen him somewhere, at a distance perhaps, but she couldn’t quite place where. He’d likely been in the throne room. A man of his sheer size and strength had to be one of those Southron knights that Arya kept going on and on about. He’d probably been in that great hall guarding some pompous lord and lady.

When he noticed her staring, he turned his head away from her view and stormed out of the kennel as if it were on fire. She followed him with her eyes until he was out of her sight. “Do you know who that was, Graige?” Sansa asked curiously.

“I’m not sure, Princess,” he replied, scratching his head in thought, “but I think that was Sandor Clegane.”

“Who?” Sansa questioned, knowing the name sounded familiar but not being able to place it.

“The Hound,” he answered simply.

With those two words, a thousand fearful whispers came flying back to the forefront of Sansa’s mind. She had heard of the king’s dog before from the lips of people fleeing the constant calamity South for the stability-seeking North. People had said awful things about, that he drank blood and ate babies raw, that he raped and pillaged, that he killed for pleasure. She wondered how a man as fearsome as these people said could earn scars as terrible as the ones on his face.

“Oh,” was all she could manage to say.


	2. Chapter Two

After only a day of being in the capital, Sansa was called upon to join Joffrey for a stroll through the gardens before feasting on a midday meal. She had expected him to call upon her, of course, but she hadn’t expected it to be so soon, especially having her sit beside him during the evening meal the night before. _He is persistent,_ she thought to herself as she made her way through the winding halls of the Red Keep.

She hated how easy it was to get lost within the long, twisting corridors of King Joffrey’s palace. The frivolity and exaggerated luxury spent by the nobility of the South were evident in every path she took. There wasn’t even a purpose for most of the rooms she passed. Back in Winterfell, she knew there was a reason for every room, every nook, every cranny. It was functional like a keep was supposed to be, not uselessly extravagant and wasteful. 

Whistling to himself, Graige followed a safe distance behind her but nowhere near close enough to touch her, not after the comment Joffrey had made during the feast about guards not knowing their places or where to keep their hands. Sansa had seen the offhand comment for what it was: a veiled threat. Somehow, he knew of her personal relationship with Graige, even though friendship was the only thing between the two, and he was jealous of it.

“I feel silly with you following me,” Sansa complained as they rounded a corner to stroll down an empty hallway. Like a petulant child, she crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “I hate this place more with every passing minute.”

“Do you remember when you were a girl and you always dreamed of living in the South?” Graige asked with mischief squirming in his voice. A small chuckle escaped his lips as she winced and wrinkled her nose at the memories of herself at ten and three, wishing to be taken away by a handsome knight to live in King’s Landing or some other Southron city. “It was your greatest wish for a long while, Your Highness.”

“I changed my mind about ever wanting to live in the South the moment I smelled King’s Landing,” Sansa grumbled back at him. Before they even entered the city, Sansa had to hold her cloak over her nose to keep from gagging at the stench of human waste emanating from behind the Old Gate. “It turned my stomach from five miles away.”

“Aye, it smells like shite,” Graige agreed with another chuckle, “but its sure got some great food. The fruits here are so juicy and ripe.”

Sansa had to agree with him on that one. Having grown and thrived in the sun, the fruits of the South were so much richer in flavor than the ones that barely survived in the glass gardens of the North. At the evening meal the night before, she tried a special wine brewed only in the South and found it to be sweeter but simultaneously tangier than she’d ever had in her life. A moan had nearly escaped her lips before she caught herself to keep from encouraging the king’s want for her.

“I will admit that their fruit is much better than ours,” Sansa said in a careful voice before adding a point in her favor, “but the venison was dry and flavorless.”

“You are very right, Princess,” Graige conceded and smacked his lips, probably trying to recreate the bland hunk of deer steak they’d had the night before. “These Southerners don’t know how to treat their meat.”

The conversation died away as they finally found the path to the gardens and followed it towards where Joffrey awaited them, looking bored and restless as he leaned against an exquisite statue of ivory. He looked up at their approach and smiled as his eyes caught onto Sansa. Those cold, cruel eyes that made her want to tremble in fear trailed down her body in a most improper way as if he were trying to memorize the shape of her to playback in his mind again and again.

As he studied her, Sansa began to regret selecting the pastel pink gown she wore. Being made of silk, she had only thought it would be cool enough to wear in the midsummer sun, especially since most of her dresses were crafted from velvet, but she hadn’t thought of how the top of her bosom was revealed from the gown’s low neckline or the way the dress seemed to cling to her especially slender waist, making her hips seem more shapely than they truly were. Even if the dress did none of that for her beauty, the pink of the dress made the natural blush in her cheeks seem brighter and brought out the fiery color of her silken locks.

“Absolutely ravishing, Princess,” Joffrey complimented as he took the hand she extended to him and pressed his awkward, clammy lips against her knuckles. “I’ve never seen a beauty fairer than yours.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” Sansa replied indifferently as she tore her gaze away from his green eyes to find a large, armored body blocking the entrance to the gardens. On the man’s head, a helm in the shape of a dog’s head gleamed in the sweltering sunlight. She remembered Graige’s assessment of the man they’d met in the kennels the day before and wondered if she was actually staring at the infamous Hound. “Is he your sworn shield, Your Grace?”

Joffrey followed her line of sight to the mountain of a man standing behind him. His lips twisted in an ugly sneer as he stared at the man. “No,” he answered in annoyance, “the dog is too stupid to swear a vow to me.” _Stupid isn’t what I’d call it,_ Sansa wanted to say to the young kind, but she restrained herself and gave the boy a kind smile. Upon viewing her smile and reading it for enthusiasm, the king’s annoyance turned into some kind of boyish glee. “Would you like to see something horrible and hideous?”

Sansa nodded, thinking he would try to prank her by shoving a toad into her dress as her brothers had done a countless amount of times, but she watched as he crooked his finger at the Hound and told him to step forward. “Take off your helm, dog,” Joffrey commanded when the Hound stepped up beside him. “The princess wishes to look upon your monstrous face.”

The Hound took off his helm and held it against his hip like washerwomen did with their baskets, revealing his scarred face to her eyes in the full light of the afternoon sun. The day before, she hadn’t been able to see what, exactly, the scars looked like in the dim lighting of the kennel, but she could clearly see that they were burns when she looked upon them in direct light. A kernel of horror grew inside of her as she thought of how much pain he must’ve endured to have been burned to such a degree that she could even see the white of his jawbone.

Aside from the scars, he had a plain face, not quite handsome like the knights in the stories she adored as a child, but it wasn’t an uninteresting one. It was gaunt and severely sharp with cheekbones that could cut through more than the sword at his hip. His large, hooked nose reminded her of a hawk’s while his gray eyes were like two glinting shields of steel. Under her stare, he brushed his long, ebony hair over his scars, trying to hide them from her view, but she had already moved away from that side of his face by the time he managed to cover the worst of it.

“Ugly, isn’t he?” Joffrey asked through the flood of snickers escaping his lips.

“I don’t believe so, Your Grace,” Sansa answered coolly, having had enough of his mockery of people. The Hound’s eyes widened in shock as they both swiveled to stare at her as if she were some three-headed beast of myth and magic. “If a man has scars, it means he has emerged from a battle victoriously.”

“I suppose that’s a Northern thing,” Joffrey grumbled, looking inconvenienced by her unimpressed attitude towards his little stunt. “Next, you’ll be telling me women wield swords in the North.”

“Almost every girl in the North does know how to wield a weapon,” Sansa replied, thinking of the many women she knew who fought as well as men. She couldn’t see how it was such a hard thing to believe in the South. Women were just as capable of wielding swords as men. “My sister and I were both tutored in battle strategies and how to fight with a weapon of our choosing from a young age.” 

Joffrey looked at her in disbelief for a solid second before bursting into laughter as if she’d made the funniest jape he’d ever heard. It was the most ridiculous laughter she’d ever heard. If she had to compare it to anything, she would say it sounded like the high-pitched squeaking of a mouse if only mice could sound as malicious and cruel as the boy next to her. His laughter alone made her hate him more than anything else he’d done so far, though the way his eyes had wandered over her earlier was a close second on her list.

Behind his laughter, though, she could hear a gruff, rasping voice ask, “What weapon?”

She found the owner of the voice to be none other than the Hound. He was looking at her as if she were the most intriguing puzzle in the world, and he wanted to find every single piece of her. It was hard to find her voice with him staring at her with such clear fascination in his gaze, but she managed to clear her throat of the bubble forming within it and ask, “What was that, Ser Clegane?”

He bristled at the title, the way it fell from her lips like a tease, but she watched as he shook away his minor annoyance to ask, “What was your weapon of choice, _Princess_?”

For some reason, the way her title rolled off his tongue sent a delicious shiver tingling up her spine, but she hid it from Joffrey’s suspicious eyes by shivering and saying, “I’m afraid only my enemies discover the answer to that, _Ser_ _Clegane_.”

If he found her answer amusing, he didn’t show it by sliding his lips into a smirk or letting out what she imagined would be a deep, husky chuckle. She could see it in his eyes, though, the way they sparked with something like interest and a little bit of annoyance at her cavalier tone. Before she could see any more of those eyes, Joffrey commanded the Hound to put on his helm and move back into position.

With that, Joffrey hooked her arm around his spindly elbow and began guiding her through a tour of his royal gardens. Sansa’s mood only soured from there when he didn’t let her stop to smell the flowers or examine the ones she had never seen before because they only grew in the exotic heat of the South. At one point, she was almost able to reach out and touch a particularly interesting star-shaped specimen, but Joffrey pulled her in the opposite direction just before her fingers could touch the pure white petals.

If he noticed her sullen mood, the young king didn’t seem to care as he continued to tell tale-after-tale of famous historical battles, most of which she already knew about from years of tutelage. It wouldn’t have been so bad, she supposed, if he spoke of the strategies that led to such tragic losses and enabled so many victories, but he only talked about the gore behind the scenes of the battles. Each time he mentioned a particularly gruesome feat, his whole face lit up with a spark of madness that disturbed her beyond belief.

Sansa considered asking about Ser Clegane’s deeds, but she knew that would only set Joffrey off. He didn’t seem to be the most stable of men, especially when it came to some misplaced possessiveness over her as his possible betrothed. Still, she wanted to know more about their silent shadow whose presence was only made known because of the heavy thudding of his feet as he followed them through the maze-like gardens of the Red Keep.

She wanted to know if all the rumors were true or if they were simply tales from the mouths of old, restless widows and young, gossiping maids. One of the first lessons she ever learned was that smallfolk tended to exaggerate at any given moment, especially when it came to those more strong and beautiful than them. Some of the women from the North’s more remote villages called her own mother an enchantress and claimed she was only the queen because she cast a spell over the king, ensnaring him with her false, magically-enhanced beauty.

There were other tales that said House Stark was a family of shapeshifters able to transform themselves into murderous direwolves, but they could only change during the fullest of moons. Sansa knew this was a product of the wargs told about in stories from the time before the Wall that also told of giants and Children of the Forest. She never put much stock in those tales, so it was inherently hard for her to believe that anyone, let alone the man trailing along behind them, drank blood and ate squalling babes.

“Do you not agree, Princess?” Sansa snapped out of her thoughts when she realized Joffrey was asking for her opinion about something. He watched her with narrowed eyes as if he was testing her, waiting for her to say the wrong thing.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” Sansa bit her lip to look apologetic, “but I’m afraid I drifted off into my own little world for a moment there.” The suspicion clouding his gaze didn’t dissipate entirely, but it lessened just a smidge. “Could you repeat the question?”

Joffrey puffed his chest up with pride and said, “I have been told that the gardens of the Red Keep are considered the most beautiful in the whole of the Six Kingdoms. Don’t you think so?”

Sansa wanted to remind him that the gardens they were currently walking through were the _only_ gardens she’d seen in the Six Kingdoms so far. Before this, the only gardens she had ever even seen were the glass gardens of Winterfell. As a child, she had always thought they were the most beautiful things she could ever see, but some Southern lord had promptly corrected her whenever she said such. The pompous man had enough courage to tell her that Winterfell’s gardens were ugly compared to those of the South, especially those in Highgarden.

“These flowers are quite exceptional,” Sansa said thoughtfully as she reached out to let her fingers trail along the velvety petals of a sunset orange pansy, “but I thought it was Highgarden that excelled in gardening.”

Joffrey snorted. “Nothing is better than something that belongs to the Crown.”

Sansa wanted to tell him that anything was better than something that belonged to him, but she continued to smile and nod primly, like a pretty puppet controlled by the strings of propriety. Gods, though, he was infuriating. Even without the mystical foresight of her brother, Bran, she could still see the man this boy would become, and she did not like what she saw. The cruelty and pride of lions were never good traits for a young king to have.

“When you belong to the Crown,” Joffrey said offhand as if the deal were already done, “no woman would ever be better than you.”

“I do not particularly care if another woman is better than me at something,” Sansa replied shortly as she tried her hardest to rein in her irritation. “Arya is better at swordplay than I, but I can’t say I’m jealous of her skills.”

“No wife of mine would ever use a sword, anyway,” Joffrey said with a scoff as he rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Fighting is for men, not women.”

Her fists were clenched in the flowing, gauzy skirts of her gown as she gritted her teeth so harshly they almost felt as if they were about to chip. “We see things quite differently in the North, Your Grace. Anyone who _can_ fight should fight—”

“We are not in the North!” Joffrey shouted, cutting her off before she could finish her sentence. The pale skin of his face was as red as the round, palm-sized vegetables they’d eaten with their dinner the night before. “In the South,” he said in a clipped tone that only imitated calm, “women do not fight or wield swords or any other weapon.”

Sansa didn’t say anything.

He didn’t care.

Joffrey continued walking along the garden’s pathways, practically dragging her by the arm as he stormed past a batch of her favorite flowers. She wanted to tell him to stop or slow down because she couldn’t keep up with him in the uncomfortable, pinching shoes that the ladies of the South preferred to wear, but she just kept her mouth shut as she processed the short-fused anger that had overtaken him when she hadn’t even been arguing with him. If he was that foul-tempered all the time, there was no way she could bring herself to marry him. Explosive anger like his was the reason many ladies feared their lord husbands.

Thankfully, before Joffrey could even entertain the notion of speaking to her again, a man of slight figure stepped into their path, looking between the pair with a spark of excited mischief in his twinkling gaze. His lips twitched into a half-smile underneath his weirdly-triangular mustache. “Your Grace,” he said as he dropped into a deeply theatrical bow, “what a surprise to see you here. I did not know you enjoyed the gardens.”

“I don’t have time for the likes of you, Littlefinger,” Joffrey spat as the scowl on his face deepened considerably. “I am supposed to be dining on a midday meal with Princess Sansa.”

Littlefinger’s brows rose in what could be called shock, but there was not even a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he turned his gaze on her. “My apologies, Your Grace, I did not know the lady I stood before was the Princess in the North.” He bowed before Sansa and placed a lingering kiss upon the knuckles of her outstretched hand. “Tales of your beauty do not do you justice, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Sansa replied as she took her hand back and hid it in the folds of her skirt again. “I’m afraid I did not catch your name.”

“I am Petyr Baelish, Princess.” He smiled at her as if he had a secret she would die to know. “I was friends with your mother before she became the Queen in the North. You look more like her than you probably realize.”

“I realize enough, Lord Baelish,” Sansa said with a faux-grin. In truth, she had heard enough people compare her to her mother to last a lifetime. “I shall have to write to my mother that I have met you. Perhaps, I will ask her to share some stories of your friendship.”

“Perhaps, there are quite a few,” Lord Baelish replied, though she could have sworn she saw a flicker of some emotion in his eyes. She didn’t know him well enough to guess at what the feeling was, but she wasn’t sure she liked it. “We had quite a friendship.”

“Would you like to join us for our midday meal, Lord Baelish?” Sansa asked before she could stop herself. Her curiosity of this man, a supposed friend of her mother’s that she’d never heard of, and her want to not be alone with Joffrey got the better of her. “I’m sure you could tell me quite a few tales about my mother. Maybe you know some embarrassing ones that she wouldn’t want me to know about.”

Lord Baelish chuckled. “Oh, I have quite a few of those, Your Highness, but I do not think that His Majesty would appreciate my company when he has the likes of you on his arm.”

“Another time, then?” Sansa brought out one of her most charming smiles as she felt Joffrey tugging at her arm. “I would love to get to hear some of those stories.”

“Of course,” Lord Baelish said before bowing and quickly striding away, his long, robe-like outfit swirling around as he made his way to the nearest ivy-covered archway and disappeared into the bustling halls of the Red Keep.

“Why would you invite him to join us?” Joffrey asked with a hint of derision coloring his tone.

“I’m curious about the man,” Sansa answered simply with a shrug of her shoulders, feeling no need to explain herself to the brat, “and the stories he claims to have about my mother.”

“He’s a proprietor of the biggest whorehouse in all of King’s Landing,” Joffrey stated sharply as color began to rise in his cheeks. He came to an abrupt stop, nearly ripping Sansa’s arm out of its socket as he did so. His fingers dug deeply into the pale skin of her arm as he tugged her up against him. “Would you like to be one of his whores? Is that it?”

“You are hurting me, _Your_ _Grace_ ,” Sansa hissed through gritted teeth as she pulled her arm from his grasp and took a step away from his seething form. “Lest you forget, I am a princess of the North. You will treat me as such or you _will_ regret it.”

He narrowed his eyes at the threat, but she didn’t take it back. Without looking down, she knew bruises were already beginning to form on the red fingerprints left behind on her ivory skin. Within a day, this so-called man had yelled at her, bruised her, and asked if she wished to be a whore simply for talking to another man.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Graige’s hand on the steel hilt of his sword, knuckles clenched so tight they were as white as bone. He looked at her with a question in his eyes. She answered him with a slight shake of her head. If he were to draw his weapon in the presence of the King, she would not be able to save him, not from the law and not from the Hound. He nodded, but his hand stayed on the hilt, ready to fight if it became necessary.

“We will continue this walk and eat our meal without another incident such as this,” Sansa said without a hint of a question in her tone as she began walking in the direction they had been heading before his outburst.

“You are not my boss,” Joffrey seethed through clenched teeth. “I am the King!”

Sansa wanted to say, _And I don’t care_ , but she knew that would get her in more trouble than ordering around the King of the Six Kingdoms. She bit back all the retorts stuck in her throat and turned on her heel to face him with a serpentine smile as she said, “Of course you are, Your Grace,” and continued walking. She didn’t even bother to turn and see if he was following until he caught up and hooked his arm around hers to steer her in the direction of their meal.

If it weren’t for her unpleasant company, Sansa would have actually been excited to try the meal she found sprawled out across a round, wire-framed table surrounded by a dozen rose bushes. All of it looked amazing, much like the food they’d had at dinner the night before, and a lot of it was completely unfamiliar to her. There were fruits and vegetables in every color of the rainbow, as well as pastries she couldn’t even think of names for.

The meal, at least, was nice enough because Joffrey’s mouth was occupied with eating, not talking. Every once in awhile, he would mention something off-hand, like how he thought the elk meatballs were a little dry. Once, he claimed that one sour type of wine was a favorite of his mother’s. When he wasn’t commenting on random things, though, his eyes were glued onto his plate, not her, giving Sansa the opportunity to study the Hound without him noticing.

He really was quite a specimen, tall and broad-shouldered, and she wondered if he had any of the North in him. Honestly, he looked more Northern than most Northmen these days. Those rumors she’d been told floated back into her mind as she observed him and she knew they had to be false. Sure, he looked big and strong, like he had the strength of ten men, but she couldn’t sense an ounce of cruelty in him. Despite seeming a little cold, perhaps a bit detached, he didn’t seem to be the bloodthirsty monster people claimed him to be.

“I have a question about your guard, Your Majesty,” Sansa said before she could stop herself.

The man in question's gaze shot straight to her and widened in shock while Joffrey looked up from his meal with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“What is it?”

“I have heard all sorts of rumors,” Sansa started as she gathered her courage by taking a big, deep breath, “but I don’t know the validity of those wild tales.”

“Spit it out,” Joffrey snapped, seemingly bored and annoyed by her interest in his dog.

“You don’t eat babies, do you?” Sansa asked the Hound.

One of his brows rose to meet his hairline as he answered with a simple, gruff, “No.”

“No blood drinking then?”

“No.”

“You’re no raper, are you, Ser?” At this point, she was teasing, just a little, but she enjoyed the way his lips twisted into a scowl with every absurd rumor she asked about.

He scoffed. “No, that’s my fucking brother.”

Sansa should have been appalled at his use of crude language in her presence, but a little thrill shot through her when the word left his lips. She was aware of Joffrey watching their interaction, but she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “I assume that you are truly a killer, though.”

“All men are killers,” he answered gruffly.

“Yes,” Sansa agreed softly as she rubbed at her sore wrist where Joffrey’s fingers had painted her skin red, “they are.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment before she turned her attention back to the food in front of her. Having already eaten enough of the savory, filling food, she scanned her gaze over the pastries until she found a plate of round, golden cakes that looked awfully familiar. She snatched one and bit into it. The sweet, yet sour taste of lemon and honey danced on her tongue and quickly devoured the lemon cake with a moan on the tip of her tongue, daring to escape.

“These are my favorite,” she said to no one in particular as she reached for another one. “Our cook makes them back home, but they aren’t quite as good.” She took a small bite and licked at her bottom lip to clean up the crumbs. “The lemons never taste as sour as they should when grown in the North.”

“When you are my queen, you can eat all the lemon cakes you want,” Joffrey stated with such certainty that Sansa shivered. He seemed as if he knew without a doubt that it would be a _when,_ not an _i_ _f_. It was as if their betrothal was finalized in his mind when it would never happen in hers. “Until you start to get fat and ugly from them.”

 _One fortnight,_ Sansa told herself. _All you have to do is deal with him for one fortnight then you can return home and forget all about him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. When Sansa describes Joffrey's red, angry face as a round, palm-sized vegetable, she's talking about tomato, but I'm acting like she wouldn't actually know what it's called because I feel like tomatoes aren't common in the North. Also, I know the tomato is technically a fruit.
> 
> 2\. I feel like I should have addressed the rumors about Sandor's reputation in my notes from the last chapter. Yes, his reputation is worse in this fic than depicted in the books or the TV show, but I'm only making it that way because these people are so superstitious. In my mind, I see them as people who would tell tall tales about everything, including a man that is a talented fighter marked by scars who is wayyy taller than everybody else like him. I mean, people in the middle ages used to believe that their neighbors were witches because they had moles, people, MOLES. They'd be going crazy over Sandor.
> 
> 3\. On the other hand, I feel like Northerners wouldn't care too much about scars and stuff. They're kind of a warrior culture, like they are the first line of defense whenever the Wildings make it over the Wall, so scars shouldn't be a really big thing. I took that thought and ran with it and made it to where scars are honorable. I don't know . . . Just go with it, I guess.
> 
> 4\. Yes, I made the Northern girls warriors in this because I thought it would be cool and I'm kind of basing some of this Northern stuff off of Viking culture. Don't worry, Sansa's weapon-of-choice will be revealed eventually. Arya's weapon is still Needle.
> 
> 5\. Bran is still a greenseer, but he hasn't trained with the Three-Eyed Raven yet.
> 
> Now that I've covered everything, I think, thanks for reading! I love comments! I'm so happy everybody seems to be enjoying this crazy little thing I decided to write. If y'all got any predictions, don't be afraid to shout them out!


	3. Chapter Three

Even hours after Joffrey finally realized Sansa from their outing, her mind kept drifting back towards the heat of the afternoon. She found herself skipping over everything the boy king had said and done when she replayed the day in her mind. He wasn’t what had captured her attention, not even in the slightest, despite his many attempts to make her see something in him that just wasn’t there. No, her mind kept going back to his surly guard. 

_The Hound._

Curiosity ebbed from her whenever she thought of the mysterious man. She wanted to know the truth about him, not rumors that came from old fairy tales. His scars kept coming back to the forefront of her mind. She wondered where he’d gotten them. In her mind’s eye, she imagined him getting the scars from some brave battle, but she knew the truth was probably more complicated and horrible.

Still overcome by these thoughts, Sansa tossed and turned in her bed until finally giving up on sleeping. She pushed back the silken fur blanket she’d brought with her from Winterfell and grabbed her robe from the foot of her bed. Her ears picked up the slightest rustling of Arya’s covers as she pulled her robe on, but she ignored it and continued to prepare for a quiet stroll around the Red Keep’s halls until she felt Arya’s hand on her shoulder.

“Where are you going, Sansa?” Arya questioned in concern.

“I can’t sleep,” Sansa answered truthfully as she turned to stare down into the gray eyes of her younger sister. “I’m just going for a short walk to tire myself out.”

“Be careful,” Arya warned as she settled back into her bed. She pulled her blankets up to her chin and snuggled into her feather-stuffed pillow. “Father said this place is dangerous at night.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sansa assured her as she tightened her robe around her body and patted one of the pockets that rested against her hip. “Don’t worry about me.”

Arya fell back to sleep almost instantly as Sansa snuck out of the room. She tiptoed across the parlor, careful not to bump into any of the borrowed furniture. Her father was such a light sleeper that even the slightest of sounds would wake him from a deep, deep sleep, so she forced herself to go slowly and stealthily across the room until she reached the door.

With no servants scuffling from one room to the next, the halls were deathly quiet. Shadows danced across the stone walls as fire-light torches flickered, shining warm light down the darkened corridors. Shivers slithered down her back as she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as if someone were watching her, but when she turned to see if there was anyone behind her, there was no one to be found. The whole effect was eerie, to say the least.

Sansa was determined to take a short stroll, no more than twenty minutes, and head straight back to bed. She definitely did not want to be caught wandering the halls of the Red Keep on her own, not when she knew how women were treated in this nightmare of a land. Although she knew most men would hesitate before violating a princess of another realm, some of the king’s men struck her as the kind who would try anything to take her, no matter if it would eventually cost them their heads.

Sansa made her way down the twisting, turning halls easily enough, but she found herself growing more restless, instead of less. Her thoughts kept revolving around a mass of scars and piercing gray eyes that just wouldn’t disappear from her imagination, no matter what she tried. Gods, she even thought about Joffrey, hoping the horrible boy could keep her mind from wandering back to his guard, but it only made things worse.

She was about to turn around and just try to figure out a way to fall asleep back in her rooms when she heard a strangled noise coming from one of the rooms down the hall she’d almost skipped in favor of returning to her family’s borrowed apartments.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Sansa walked down that hall, following the keening noise to a room with an ornate door with light shooting out from the cracks. Despite her mind screaming at her that she didn’t want to hear what was going on behind those closed doors, she pressed her ear against the door and listened intently at the same moment that a distinctly feminine voice moaned, “Jaime,” so passionately that Sansa’s face flamed a bright, rose red.

She stepped back from the door in shock as she realized she recognized the voice. In King’s Landing, she had met a few women, but she’d only heard two of them speak enough to be familiar with the sounds of their voices. One was her handmaid, Lauris, while the other was the dowager queen, Cersei Lannister. Except, she knew for a fact that Lauris, a girl of no more than ten and two, was not having intimate relations with Jaime Lannister, the only man named Jaime she knew to be within the Red Keep.

The voice behind the door belonged to Cersei Lannister, she was sure of it.

Cersei Lannister had just moaned her twin brother’s name in the middle of the night while behind the locked doors of her bedchamber. She remembered, suddenly, that the Targaryens had been obsessed with marrying and bedding their siblings— _to keep the bloodline pure,_ she remembered a book saying—but if Cersei Lannister was truly bedding her brother, Sansa knew it was not for same insane reasons that the Targaryens had used to excuse the incest.

If it were true, it could change absolutely everything.

This secret could bring everything into question, especially the legitimacy of Joffrey’s reign. With his mother’s faithfulness to late King Robert in question, Joffrey’s claim as the Baratheon heir to the Iron Throne would be under siege. Stannis, the eldest living Baratheon, could argue against the young man’s reign and seat himself as King of the Six Kingdoms.

Sansa’s mind whirled over the possibilities until she heard the sound of metal armor from inside the room, signaling the Kingslayer’s imminent departure from his lover’s room. Quickly, she darted across the hall and rounded the nearest corner until she was completely out of sight. When she heard the door open, she let herself catch a quick glance of the blond-haired knight leaving the queen’s room with a skip in his step. She let out a sigh of relief when his figure disappeared from sight.

She spun around in shock as a gruff voice asked, “What’s the little bird doing out of her cage?”

Before she even knew who the voice belonged to, Sansa had her hidden dagger pressed against their side between where the fourth and fifth ribs would be underneath the skin. Her grip remained tight on the weapon until she looked up into the gray eyes she hadn’t been able to get out of her head since her midday meal ended. In her surprise, the weapon fell from her hands, clanging metallically against the stone floor.

“So the little bird has talons,” the Hound commented lightly as he reached down and picked up her blade from where it landed next to her bare feet. He tossed it lightly from hand-to-hand before handing it back to her with the hilt facing towards her. “Nice blade.”

“I am so sorry,” Sansa finally said as she recovered from her state of shock. She tucked her blade back into the pocket of her robe she’d been keeping it in. “I didn’t hear you come upon me.”

The Hound didn’t even seem to care that she’d been poised to drive her dagger up into his still-beating heart only seconds before. “I’ve had worse than your pretty blade against my ribs, girl.” He waved his hand through his air in a way that told he’d already forgotten about it. “Don’t waste your pretty courtesies on me.”

Even though her mind was still whirling around the things she’d just learned, Sansa found herself smiling softly up at the man. “Still, I am sorry, nonetheless.” She gestured for him to join her as she began walking the direction of her quarters. “I had feared a knight had come upon me with less than noble intentions.”

“How do you know my intentions are noble?” the Hound asked with a sneer on her lips that she supposed was meant to frighten her, but she only found his attempt to be humorous. “Perhaps, I drank too much during the evening meal and decided that I wanted a pretty bird like you.”

Sansa flushed at his words as the realization that he thought she was pretty made those butterflies flutter around in her stomach. “Did you do that, Ser?” she found herself asking cheekily as she peered up at him from beneath her long lashes.

He regarded her for a long moment with wide, confused eyes as if he couldn’t quite understand what she was. “Not tonight,” he finally replied as he shrugged his shoulders, looking almost as if he were uncomfortable underneath her gaze, “but I won’t make promises for any other night. Hounds are always sniffing around girls like you.”

 _Girl_ . She sneered at the term, not liking the idea that maybe he thought of her as a child. As her arms crossed over her chest, she came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the hallway, forcing him to stop, too, and said, “I am not a _girl_ , Ser. I am a woman. Do not take me for a child.”

He stared down at her for a long, long moment before a grin broke out across his face. It was lopsided and almost feral-looking, like something that a wolf would create, and Sansa memorized it to put away in her mind as if it were a priceless treasure. Before she could even process what he was doing, he backed her against a nearby wall until their chests were nearly touching and the silly smile on his face disappeared.

Sansa thought, perhaps, maybe she should be scared of what was about to happen, but she couldn’t find any fear within herself. Her heart beat against her chest so thunderously she thought it might explode, but it wasn’t terror that had her breath leaving her lips in short, stunted gasps. It was a strange, delicious heat flaring up inside of her that caused her to feel tingles along her skin in the places where she could feel his heat on her body.

“I will call you whatever the fuck I want to call you, _girl_ ,” he growled in a way that was surely menacing to a woman with a fainter heart, but it only sent a shiver of anticipation down Sansa’s spine. “Do you understand me?”

“Is this supposed to scare me?” Sansa asked cockily, summoning Theon’s haughty attitude as she rose up on her toes and tipped her chin up until their faces were only inches apart. “Because it really isn’t working, _Ser_.”

“I’m no fucking Ser,” the Hound snapped at her, still angry, but he back away from where he’d shoved her against the wall, allowing her the freedom to move. She stayed where she was. “And, yes, you should be scared of me.”

“Because everybody else is,” Sansa guessed immediately, having already figured out that the rumors she heard about the man before her were nothing more than the fearful whispers of people who feared his rage and the scars that matched it. “As you may have already discovered, I am not like everybody else in this gods-forsaken keep.”

“No,” his eyes drifted to the pocket of her robe where her dagger was hidden, “you are not.” He leaned against the wall opposite of hers with his arms crossed over his chest. “Why?”

“Why what?” Sansa asked, although she was pretty sure she knew what he was asking.

He cocked his head to the side as he watched her with those ever-intrigued eyes. “Why aren’t you scared of me, Princess?”

“Why should I be?” she countered. “You might be a little rough and have a couple of scars, but I do not see how that should lead to me being fearful.”

“I’m the bloody Hound,” he said as if that explained everything.

Sansa shrugged, knowing that Septa Mordane would roll over in her grave if she ever saw such a thing. “In the North, they call me the Red Wolf.” Her words came out a lot less empathetic than she’d meant them to, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. “Why should I be scared of a name?”

He scoffed. “Don’t you see my face, you stupid bird?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed at the insult, but she let her eyes search over his face for a long moment before she said, “Yes, it’s the same face I saw earlier today. A warrior’s face.”

“I didn’t get these scars in some shit honorable battle like you Northern lot seem to worship,” he snapped harshly. “It’s not some pretty story to tell at night.”

“Tell me anyway,” Sansa persuaded as she slid down the wall to sit on the floor. She crossed her legs underneath her as she had a thousand times as a child and propped her chin upon her hand. “I have all the time in the world.”

With a reluctant sigh, he said, “If I told you my brother did this,” he pointed to the scarred side of his face, “would you let it be?”

“Probably not,” Sansa replied as her curiosity itched to know more even as her heart stuttered at the thought of one of her brothers giving her such a wound. “I’m very hard to please, Ser.”

“Enough with that Ser shit,” he spat.

“I don’t know what else to call you.” She refused to call him _Dog_ or _Hound_ like that cruel boy-king, but she didn’t know if he would be fine with her calling him by his given name. It would be against all the rules of propriety. “It’s not as if you introduced yourself to me.”

“You know my name, girl.”

“But I don’t know what you like to be called.”

He harrumphed at that, but the next time he opened his mouth, he said, “You can call me Sandor, if you wish.”

“I do wish,” Sansa replied with a small smile on her lips.

It was quiet for a long while after that. She almost opened her mouth to ask him something when he said, “I was playing with one of his toys, a jointed wooden knight, and Gregor discovered it.” She wanted to say something, but she knew he wasn’t finished telling his story. “He thought I stole it, but I didn’t. I just wanted to play with it.” Sansa watched as he took out a wineskin and gulped down a long swig of what was probably strong wine. “He shoved my face into some burning coals until three men pulled him off of me.”

A strong emotion that Sansa had trouble naming rose up in her as she let his story sink it. She recognized the feeling as empathy, but not the kind that was laced with pity. There was also a sick, nausea-like acid in her throat as she felt the horror of what his brother had done to him sink in. It was true that he hadn’t earned his scars in some fearsome battle, but they were worthy of honor all the same.

Without thinking, she rose from her seat against the wall and walked over to him. She sank to her knees directly in front of him and raised her hand to let her fingers lightly graze across his face, just barely stroking the scars. “You might not have earned these with a sword in your hand,” she said as she looked in his dark eyes, “but you still came out of your own battle victoriously.”

She thought, for a moment, that she could see the sparkling sheen of tears in his eyes, but he blinked and they were gone before they ever fell. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from his face, although his touch was far more gentle than he probably meant it to be. “If you tell anyone of this,” he rasped as he stood, “I’ll kill you.”

Sansa’s lips twisted into a smirk as she followed him to her feet. “No, you won’t.”

“Try me,” he growled as he started to storm ahead, still in the directions of her chambers. Her eyes stayed frozen on his form as he walked ahead, mesmerized by the way his broad shoulders moved underneath his tunic. 

_Oh, I’d like to,_ replied a voice in the back of her mind that she shoved away, chastising herself for thinking such improper thoughts. Even if she wasn’t as lady-like as these Southron women, she was still a lady. A princess, for that matter. She shouldn’t think such thoughts.

Quickly, Sansa caught up with him and managed to wrap her arm around his elbow. “Tell me, _Sandor_ ,” she noticed the way he almost gulped at the way she said his name and smiled, “what do you think of women knowing how to wield weapons?”

“Seems smart enough,” he answered with a shrug. “Less screaming girls I have to rescue.”

One of the best opinions on the subject she’d heard thus far from a Southron man. “Do you have Northern blood?” she asked suddenly as her curiosity about this man got the better of her once again.

“I wouldn’t know. My family were smallfolk until my grandfather was given a lordship.” He shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t care about any of that. “Smallfolk don’t usually keep track of their ancestors like lords and ladies. Why do you ask?”

“You look of the North to me,” Sansa replied simply. “Why was your grandfather given his lordship?”

“He saved Tytos Lannister from being attacked by a lioness,” he answered gruffly, indicating to her that he didn’t really care for the story.

“Wouldn’t you be Lord Clegane, then?” Sansa asked cautiously.

“That’s my bastard of a brother.”

At the mention of his brother, Sansa decided to change the topic. “I hear there’s going to be a tournament soon.” She’d heard this from Joffrey, but she was sure the Hound hadn’t been listening to their conversation when he’d brought it up. “To be honest, I’m a little excited about it. I have never actually been to one before.”

He turned an incredulous look on her. “You’ve never been to a tournament?”

“We don’t have them in the North,” Sansa admitted with a shake of her head. “I have heard about them from my mother and father, though.” Suddenly, a thought popped into her head and she turned to him. “Will you be competing in the tournament?”

“If the king commands.”

“I think I would very much like to see that,” Sansa said softly before realizing what she could be implying. “Not the king commanding you, I mean. I would very much like to see you in the tournament.” Before he could reply to her stammering, she realized they were coming upon her family’s borrowed apartments. “Oh, um, we’re back at my quarters. I suppose I should go in.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but before any words could fall from his lips, she rose up on her toes and planted a small peck of a kiss on the warped skin of his scarred cheek and said, “Goodnight, Sandor,” before rushing into her family’s parlor without waiting for his reply.

Once inside, she cursed herself for being a stupid girl and acting like a lovesick lass. She was hardly in love with the man as she had been with all the knights in her stories when she was no more than a child, but there was something about him that made her feel reckless and stupid and childish all at the same time. It was a quality that the boy king, along with many of the men who had tried for her hand in the North, was definitely missing, yet she couldn’t put a finger on what it was.

It could be those eyes, so gray and hard and full of emotion, but it could also be the way that he seemed to be interested in her wielding a weapon, rather than repulsed. She wondered what he would think of her battle strategies. Most men assumed that she wanted to talk about poems and love stories, but there was more in her brain than the things her girlhood self had enjoyed. She had been raised a Stark princess, and it was enough to make her want to talk about war and treaties and history.

Sansa shook her head clear of those thoughts when she heard voices coming from her father’s study. She crept towards it as she recognized her father’s voice, though it was more soft-spoken than usual, and another voice filled the air, this one unfamiliar, yet soothing in some way. As she had in the hallway before, she pressed her ear against the door and listened.

“If what you’re saying is true, it will be considered treason for me to be consorting with you,” said the soothing voice.

“I know, but I didn’t know who to trust.” Her father sounded troubled. It was the same tone he used whenever he learned about a judgment he had to pass. “I know you will always do whatever is best for the realm, not the ruler on the throne.”

“What makes you think Joffrey isn’t what is best for the realm?”

“The child is a monster.” There was no argument from the soothing voice, so her father continued, “And I don’t believe he’s the rightful heir to the throne.”

“You’re suggesting he is not Robert’s child.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I just don’t have proof.”

Sansa realized at that moment that what she’d witnessed earlier on her midnight stroll was proof to what her father was saying. Cersei’s betrayal of Robert had obviously been a well-kept secret, but Sansa knew about it now. If what her father was saying was true, then Joffrey wasn’t Robert’s child, and Sansa had the proof that he was, indeed, Jaime Lannister’s. Perhaps, all of Cersei’s children were.

She stepped into the room.

Her father’s eyes widened as he realized who walked into his study. He opened his mouth to command her to leave, but Sansa said, “I can help, Father.”

Her eyes drifted to the other man in the room and realized it was the man some called the Spider. Lord Varys. He was the king’s Small Council, and he knew every secret in all of King’s Landing, possibly the world. She wondered if he would be shocked to learn that she knew a secret his little birds had not yet collected for him.

The bald man appraised her with dark eyes. “How can you help, child?”

“If Robert isn’t Joffrey’s father,” Sansa began, “then I know who is.”

Her father’s eyes widened. “Who, Sansa?”

“Jaime Lannister.”

“The Queen’s brother?” her father exclaimed, unbelieving.

“Don’t be mad, but I went for a stroll through the halls to clear my head.” Sansa saw her father’s face harden with anger, but she plowed on before he could say anything. She told the two men of what she’d heard from Cersei’s chambers and who she had seen exiting the room. “It was the Kingslayer, Father. I have no doubts about that.”

“You need to keep this quiet,” Lord Varys said after a couple of long moments. Concern was clear on his face as he looked over at her father. “Joffrey’s true parentage is a dangerous secret to know in a court that fears him so greatly.”

“I can’t just let him sit on the throne with no claim—,”

“I’m not saying let him stay on it forever,” Varys cut her father off before he could finish his honorable words. “Just be careful with how you use this information.”

“We have to figure out a plan, Father,” Sansa pleaded, knowing how hard it had to be for her father to let his best friend’s legacy end with an incestuous runt on his throne, tarnishing the Baratheon name. “People without plans die quickly in places like this.”

“Your daughter is right,” Varys agreed with a proud nod in her direction.

The Spider took his leave not long after that, though he had given them some thoughtful ideas about what to do with this knowledge. She wasn’t sure he could be trusted, but she knew that he believed in what was best for the realm. Joffrey definitely was _not_ what was best for anything. She smiled at him as he exited the apartments, leaving her alone with her father.

“Let’s discuss this more in the morn, hmm,” Sansa suggested. “It’s very late.”

Her father nodded, but she could still see his mind turning.

She just hoped his honor didn’t end up getting them all killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's that.
> 
> To be clear, the dagger is actually not Sansa's secret weapon, but it would be pretty easy to hide in a place like the Red Keep, so she's going to be using it in King's Landing.
> 
> I hope none of the stuff between Sandor and Sansa seemed too rushed. This is still a slow burn, but these two are idiots who are seriously drawn to each other soooo . . . there you go, I guess.
> 
> Also, the big secret is out, but nobody is trusting Lord Baelish this time around, so things might go better or they might go a thousand times worse.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter Four

A few days after their discovery, Sansa helped her father craft a letter to Stannis, the eldest living Baratheon brother, about what they knew. As much as they both wanted to rush into the courtroom and unseat the cruel boy king, they both knew better than that. All they had were her father’s suspicions and Sansa’s witnessed interaction. If they had any physical evidence, a letter between the twin lovers perhaps, things would be easier, but Sansa knew Cersei wasn’t such a fool as to leave something so incriminating lying around.

Nearly a fortnight passed by without any events. So far, no word from Stannis had been received by the Spider, Sansa, or the King in the North. Her father reasoned that Stannis probably hadn’t even gotten their missive yet, being so busy as the Lord of Dragonstone, but Sansa had her doubts about the Baratheon. What loyalty could they expect from the man? He was, after all, Joffrey’s uncle. Why would he even believe their words, no matter how true they spoke? The whole situation disconcerted her enough that her nights were filled by her twisting and turning in her featherbed, sleep being ever out of her sight.

Joffrey still called on Sansa nearly every day, constantly seeking her approval and affection, though Sansa couldn’t discern his motives for such flirtations. Unlike the ladies of his court, she didn’t preen and frolic around him as if he were made of the old songs. She was courteous, of course, as any woman in a foreign land should be, but her mind never failed to wander to other places as the young king filled their outings with incessant chatter.

Despite the fact that the Hound was at almost every outing, they hadn’t spoken since the night he’d walked her back to her rooms, the night she’d laid a kiss on his cheek. After the meeting with her father and the Spider that night, she’d lain awake worried that the Hound would tell the king about their encounter, but Joffrey never said a word of it. Still, the faithful Hound kept his eyes carefully averted away anytime she tried to catch his gaze.

It was much the same on what was supposed to be her family’s second-to-last day in King’s Landing, although she suspected their stay would be extended until they heard from Stannis, when she dined with the ladies of the court, including the dowager queen. The men sat at a table across the hall, discussing things that a lady’s fragile ears were not supposed to hear in a court such as this, with the king at their head while the ladies sat around their own midday meal, clucking like chickens about the new silks brought in from Dorne.

Sansa herself was wearing a dress made of the famous silks. It was clear to anybody that the dress was made specifically for her as it clung to the curves of her waist and breasts before billowing out into a flowing skirt. The crimson fabric matched brought out the red of her hair, making the strands seem more vivid in the sunlight illuminating the room from the open wall that led out into the nearby courtyard. Lions embroidered in gold danced around the hem where her matching slippers just barely peeped out from underneath.

Her handmaiden, Lauris, had chirped endlessly about how His Majesty had requisitioned it for her specifically and paid extra gold for it to be a rushed order, making sure it was finished by the last two days of her stay in his kingdom.  _ A parting gift for a lady so fair,  _ Lauris had explained with a wide smile and a girlish wink of her dark eyes.

All Sansa had seen in the gown was his claim on her. It was clear enough that he already thought she was his to own, to dress and do with what he liked, but she donned the gown anyway, not wanting to offend the boy when they were so close to tearing him down from the Iron Throne. They each had their parts to play in life, and Sansa knew hers well enough to know that wearing the gown was not a request.

When she’d entered the dining chamber, Joffrey had twisted his usual sneer into a smile that reeked of deception and kissed her hand with his cold, unyielding lips. When his head bowed over her hand to kiss it, she had tried to catch the eye of the Hound over his shoulder, but the man had kept his head down, eyes carefully averted to the floor. “You look ravishing, Dear Rose,” Joffrey had said in his usual simpering tone, drawing her eyes back to him and away from his shield.

_ Dear Rose,  _ Sansa now thought snidely as she pretended to listen to some Lannister girl speak about a mysterious knight she wished to wed. She hated the nickname he’d given her, although he seemed to think it was clever. Roses weren’t even her favorite flowers, not that he had listened when she told him that. But, of course, he had thought calling her a rose would make her feel more at home because of the  _ Rose of Winterfell  _ title bestowed upon her by the Northern bannermen. It hadn’t.

Her annoyance at the pet name might have gone away if Sandor had actually paid her any attention, but it had been as if she weren’t there. She knew she should have been glad of that. Once her family returned to Winterfell, the Hound would be nothing more than a faraway memory, but she had wanted to see his eyes widen at the cut of her dress, how it revealed far more than any of her Northern gowns, or at the way her cheeks were rosy with blush, making her seem like one of the beautiful flower maidens of the Highgarden’s fairy tales.

“Lady Sansa,” the Lannister girl began, interrupting Sansa’s chain of thought, “we hear the King might—,”

“ _ Princess  _ Sansa,” Sansa corrected sharply, reminding them that she was no mere lady, “is the correct title,  _ Lady  _ Anera. It would be most proper to utilize it.”

Lady Anera’s porcelain cheeks flushed pink, reminding Sansa of one of Myrcella’s expertly-crafted dolls. “I apologize, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect.”

Sansa nodded.

Beside her, Arya watched the exchange with repressed laughter quivering on her clenched lips. Unlike Sansa, the youngest Stark girl had decided to wear the same clothes she wore to training that morning. Boys breaches covered her legs, but they were too loose on her legs to give an impression of their shape, and a scraggly tunic covered her upper body. Boots that looked almost as if they were made out of mud clothed her feet.

“Anyway, Princess Sansa,” Anera leaned forward as she took a sip from her wine goblet and sighed, “we have heard the king is going to ask for your hand before your departure tomorrow.”

Sansa had heard that same rumor, although she had been hoping it wasn’t true. She plastered a smile onto her lips and raised her own goblet to her lips and took a long sip, savoring the warm courage it brought to her as it sunk in her stomach. “His Grace would be a worthy match for any woman, I’m sure,” was the most courteous thing to say.

Cersei’s eyes narrowed at her words. For a moment, Sansa wondered if the woman was a hound for lies. It seemed as if she could tell a lie apart from the truth in an instant. Although, Sansa’s words hadn’t been a lie. They had just been an  _ embellishment _ and a way to seem eager for the idea without accidentally agreeing to such a match in front of the king’s mother.

“I do so look forward to having you as my gooddaughter,” the queen said in an almost feline voice, her words curling around them all like a tail. “You would be the most beautiful queen.”

“I thank you for your words of kindness, Your Majesty,” Sansa replied sweetly, but she could see through Cersei’s lies as much as the lioness could see through her own.

“Will you miss the North?” one girl asked.

“I will always miss the North.” Sansa found there wasn’t a lie in her words as she paused for thought, remembering the fresh smell of pine as Winter winds traveled across the snowy lands of her home. “It is as a part of me as my hair or my eyes.”

“Nothing can ever sever the bond between a Stark and the North,” Arya chimed in strongly. She nodded in Sansa’s direction as she slipped her hand underneath the table and squeezed Sansa’s for comfort. There was pride glimmering in Sansa’s eyes as she looked down at her younger sister and found only courage there. “We belong to the land just as much as it belongs to us.”

Another lady opened her mouth, preparing to say something else, when a serving girl brought Sansa the peppermint tea she had requested at the beginning of the luncheon. It was supposed to soothe the ache already forming in her head, but she found the warmth of the cup soothing to her hands as well as she lifted it to her lips and took a long, hearty sip.

It was only after she swallowed that she noticed the taste wasn’t quite right. Unlike the minty sweetness she was used to when she drank this tea, a spicy, acrid flavor slithered along her tongue. It was familiar, somehow, but she was almost positive she had never tasted such a thing. Curiously, she lifted the teacup to her nose and inhaled deeply, quickly detecting the same bitterness that had made a home in her body.

Sansa’s eyes widened in shock as she recognized what it was she had just drunk. She jumped back from the table immediately, knocking her chair to the stone floor behind her, as the teacup fell from her shaking hand and shattered next to her slippers. “Nag seed,” she murmured under her breath as she started to feel the world spin around her.

As her vision began to blur in and out of focus, Sansa started to fall backward, unable to hold herself upright on legs that felt boneless, but a strong pair of arms caught her before she could crack her head on the stone. She looked up and found a set of gray eyes staring down at her, wary concern flashing through them.

“Mugroot,” Sansa choked out as pain started creeping along her body, flowing through her veins as if it were her own blood. “I need a tincture of mugroot, San—,”

He shushed her trembling voice as he hoisted her up in his arms and cradled her against his chest. She felt them moving out of the room, but a shrill voice called out his name from the ladies’ table. When he turned with her still in his arms, she could feel the reluctance of every movement, but she knew he was obeying his queen, even if Cersei was the queen regent no longer.

“Just where do you think you are going, Dog?” Cersei spat as she stormed over to them, her blonde hair swaying around her hips. “You are to guard the king at all times.”

“If you want to let a Princess of the North die, then so be it,” Sandor growled past gritted teeth as he tightened his hold on her, “but you better be prepared for war once the North finds out she was poisoned and untreated in King Joffrey’s own keep.”

At that, Sansa peeked out from where her head rested against Sandor’s breastplate, seeking out the young king. Her eyes landed on a tuft of golden hair before lowering to find a gleam of mischief in his green eyes. Although her vision was broken up by black dots from the pain racking through her body, she could see the smallest of smiles on his lips. There was no surprise, no concern, nothing, and she knew that this wasn’t an accident. For some reason, Joffrey had ordered her to be poisoned.

Before the queen could respond to Sandor’s words, Arya marched up to her, eyes wide and fearful, and clenched her tiny hands into fists. “If my sister dies,” her sister’s voice was menacingly quiet and filled with Arya’s infamous rage, “I’ll kill the little prick myself.”

Sansa wanted to scold her sister for such words, even knowing how true they were, but another wave of pain racked over her body, causing her to whimper and curl in on herself. The queen’s eyes narrowed in on the movement before she waved a hand at the two of them and said, “Fine, take her to Maester Pycelle, if you must, but we’ll discuss your punishment for leaving the king alone when you return.”

“So be it,” Sandor grumbled as he turned and rushed through the doors. Arya hurried to catch up with them, but her legs were shorter and unable to set the same pace as Sandor’s long strides. “You should go find your father, Your Highness,” Sandor suggested gruffly as Arya finally walked alongside them. “He will want to know about this.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arya spat at him, but she went on her way, hurrying off in the direction of their quarters.

“She hates titles,” Sansa croaked out with a cough that was meant to be a laugh, “almost as much as you.”

“Aye,” Sandor responded.

After that, there was no more talking until they reached the maester’s healing ward. The pain in her body was enough to have her a whimpering mess, not fit for a conversation, and he didn’t seem to care too much about small talk at the time.

Maester Pycelle directed him to take her to a private chamber with a small cot in the corner. The Hound obeyed the old man’s words and laid her down the threadbare sheets, though he didn’t dare cover her with the ratty blanket strewn across the foot of the bed. She shivered a little at the sudden cold rushing through her veins, indicating how little time she had left before the mugroot antidote wouldn’t matter anymore.

He must have noticed the shiver because he took off his Kingsguard cloak and laid it across her, looking almost sheepish as he did so. It should have been improper—only a husband was supposed to cloak a woman—but Sansa’s lips managed to form a shaky smile as she burrowed into the cloak’s warmth as best she could and noticed a rugged, woodsy musk clinging to the fabric.

The creak of armor alerted her to him as he tried to stand and make an exit. She reached out and caught his arm before he could even make it to the door. His eyes darted to her hand and, gods, it looked small against him, but she didn’t drop it away until he sat next to her again, looking only mildly uncomfortable.

“Stay with me, please,” Sansa begged as tears started to fill her eyes. She wanted to wipe away her tears, hating how they probably made her seem weak in front of him, but she didn’t want to move her hand away from his arm. “I don’t want to be alone if I die.”

Sandor’s eyes hardened at her words, but she could see him trying to force a small, reassuring smile onto his lips. “You’re not gonna die, Little Bird,” he said in a raspy voice. “That shit maester will be in here with the antidote in a few minutes.”

“ _Little_ _Bird_ ,” Sansa repeated in a whisper so quiet the wind could have carried it away, trying the name for herself before realizing that she liked it. Gods knew it was better than _Dear Rose_.

“Aye, you remind me of those little red birds we get here in the spring,” Sandor explained, completely unflustered by the blush sitting high on her cheeks. “Beautiful creatures, they are.” He whistled a sweet tune that had Sansa closing her eyes so she could soak up the melody. “They sing songs like that, so pretty and alive.”

“So you think I’m beautiful,” Sansa murmured as she started coughing into her hand, noting that her fingers felt wet after each croak. Her eyes fluttered open to find her own blood coating her pale fingertips. “Beautiful like a bird.”

“I’d have to be a blind man not to,” Sandor grunted after a long moment.

She studied his face, wondering if he were lying to spare her dying feelings, but she saw no deception in his gray gaze. Not for the first time, she found her eyes wandering over to his scars, mapping them as they appeared like constellations across the left side of his face. Her lips tingle as her mind goes back to the kiss she’d planted on those scars. Despite what some people would think, they had been smooth and a little warm underneath her lips.

A blush coated her cheeks as she thought about what the burned side of his lips would feel like against hers. Would they feel like the rest of his burns or would they be different, more like the unscarred parts of his mouth? A huge part of her, the part she pushed down, wanted to find out before she died, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything to him about his lips or her lips or their lips.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked gruffly as one of his hands pawed at his hair, carefully moving it to cover his scars.

Before she could answer, Pycelle burst through the door with a small vial in his wrinkled hands. He moved slowly, almost like the snails her brother had used to torture around Winterfell’s ponds by turning them upside down onto their shells, but Sandor grabbed the thing out of his hands almost immediately, knowing that speed was required at the moment.

He pulled out the stopper with his teeth before bringing the vial to her parted lips and tilting it so the liquid poured down her throat. She swallowed it greedily, not even bothering to be disgusted by the taste of rotten eggs and sea brine as the antidote filled her mouth not a moment too soon. If Pycelle had been five minutes later, not even mugroot could have saved her from the long, painful death of nag seed poisoning.

When the last drop of the mugroot tincture completely gone, Sandor tossed the vial back into Pycelle’s waiting hands and leaned forward with his elbows resting against his knees. He watched her carefully, cautiously, as if he wasn’t sure what to expect, but Sansa felt the antidote working almost immediately as the pain in her limbs started to fall away in favor of a warm rush of tingles that felt like someone dragging their fingers down the sensitive column of her spine.

“Gods, that feels good,” Sansa mumbled as she reached up and brushed away the tears still sliding down her cheeks. Her eyes roamed over to Sandor’s, but quickly darted away when she noticed her father and sister standing in the doorway, eyes wide and fearful.

“Are you well, Sansa?” her father asked as he made his way into the small room, crowding the cot she laid on, nudging Sandor out of the way. He laid his bare hand on her forehead, feeling for the telltale fever of nag seed poisoning. “You’ve been given the antidote.”

It was not a question, but she answered anyway, “Yes, thanks to Ser Clegane.”

Sandor froze from where he had been trying to sneak out of the room, but he didn’t turn around to meet the grateful gaze her father set upon his shoulders as he said, “He will have to be rewarded then.”

“I don’t need a reward, Your Majesty,” was all Sandor said before rushing out of the room.

With both Pycelle and Sandor gone, Sansa sat up and looked her father dead in the eyes. “Joffrey had a hand in this, Father.” She saw the doubt cloud his eyes, but she shook her head, having no room for doubt after what she’d seen. “I’m sure of it.”

“This is a serious accusation, Sansa.”

“I saw his face with my own eyes, Father.” Sansa remembered the cold cruelty in the boy’s eyes, the malicious smile sneaking onto his lips, and shuddered at the feelings the images evoked. “There is no way he was surprised by the poisoning, which means he knew of it beforehand.”

“We will deal with this when Stannis arrives,” her father assured her as Arya finally made her way to the cot and started to make herself comfortable next to Sansa. “The boy will pay for the death he almost caused.”

“Even if he does not want it, I wish for Ser Clegane to be rewarded for his troubles,” Sansa declared carefully as she tried not to let her feelings show through. “He will be punished for abandoning the king’s side to bring me here.”

“Of course, I’ll see to it that he is given some gold when we return his cloak to him,” her father said with a smile as he glanced down at the white cloak wrapped around her figure, burying her in warmth and Sandor’s scent. “Until then, I need to return to my office, but I assume you will be fine staying here until the maester releases you.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Arya volunteered as she curled up along Sansa’s side as she had when they had shared a bed as children and the coldest of nights were upon them. “I have Needle on me to protect her from harm.”

“That you do,” their father said as he ruffled Arya’s hair, much to her distaste, and smoothed down Sansa’s red locks. “Nevertheless, I’ll send Graige to stand watch outside the door.”

Both girls watched their father’s back as he retreated from the room. Sansa noticed how tense his shoulders were, knowing that he had been in a constant state of stress since they left Winterfell, and made a promise that she would try to remove some of the worries from his life once she was out of the maester’s healing ward. It was only after the door closed behind him that Arya turned to Sansa with narrowed eyes.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Sansa asked curiously.

“Why would the infamous Hound forfeit his good standing with the King of the Six Kingdoms to save you?” Arya asked in return.

Sansa tensed, feeling the need to lie and say that she had no idea, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie to her own sister, not when she’d just narrowly escaped death itself. She was bone-tired, and an argument was not something she was looking forward to at the moment. With a sigh, she burrowed her head deep into the one pillow Pycelle spared for the room and said, “Do you really want to know?”

“Duh,” Arya replied as she rolled her eyes and sat up against the wall the cot was pushed against.

“I think he might care for me,” Sansa said softly, wistfully, although she wasn’t sure her words were truthful. She was sure he cared for her in some vicinity, but the amount of caring was probably nowhere near to what she was hoping it would be. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she tried to figure out how to say the next part. “And, I think I might care for him, too.”

Arya blinked once, twice, and a third time before laughter burst from her lips. It was wild and raucous, sounding more like the yowling of a dying cat than the laughs of a princess, and Sansa could only frown until it died down to a couple of stifled giggles. “Are you saying you  _ care  _ for Sandor Clegane, the bloodthirsty Hound?”

“Oh, stop that,” Sansa muttered as she crossed her arms over her chest and turned away from her sister’s amused face. “I know it’s strange, Arya, but I do care for him.”

“Sansa, you’ve only known him for—,”

“For a fortnight, I know.” Sansa huffed as she tried to sort through her feelings. She knew that caring for Sandor was illogical and childish and stupid, but, gods, she couldn’t help it. “I’m not saying I love him or anything such as that, but I think I might be able to one day.”

“He’s of the South,” Arya protested.

“He looks of the North.”

“When we leave for Winterfell, he’ll still be serving the king in the Crownlands,” Arya reminded her tentatively with a comforting squeeze of her shoulder. “There is no future in him, Sansa.”

“I know that,” Sansa replied quietly, “I do.”

“Then bury your feelings.” She turned at the hardness in her sister’s voice to find her eyes gleaming resolute strength. “They will only serve to see you fail.”

Sansa wanted to ask what had happened to her sister for her to know such things, but she kept the question to herself. As much as she loved Arya, they weren’t as close as sisters could be. If the younger girl wanted to keep some secrets from her, then Sansa couldn’t really object to it. After all, she was keeping secrets of her own.

She still hadn’t told Arya what she’d discovered outside the queen’s bedchamber two weeks prior, per her father’s wishes, but she wanted to each day. She knew it would be better for Arya to know the danger they were in, but her duty was to obey her father’s commands, even if she didn’t think they were for the best.

She let the conversation drop away from them as her taxing day and nights of hardly any sleep started to take their toll on her body, drowning her in the comforting warmth of night dreams. The woodsy smell of Sandor washed over her from the cloak she still kept wrapped around her body, keeping her safe in even the darkest of her dreams. She would deal with the issue of feelings when she awoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that there are poisons in the Game of Thrones universe, but I couldn't find any names for any antidotes to those poisons, so I created my own. If mugroot sounds familiar, it's because there is a brand of Root Beer named Mug Root Beer (it has a bulldog on the can).
> 
> I made Sansa be able to recognize some types of poison because of her training. I feel like that is an extremely useful skill, especially for ladies. Isn't there a saying about how poison is a woman's weapon? Basically, Sansa recognizes the smell of some poisons and knows the antidotes in this story.
> 
> Anywho, thank you guys for reading! I love all the comments I receive! I hope you all are in good health and managing to keep safe during the COVID-19 outbreak.
> 
> P.S., if you have any ideas about what Joffrey's up to (because that little shit is definitely up to something), let me know! I love hearing theories from you guys! It makes surprising you so much easier!


	5. Chapter Five

During the time she spent in the healing ward, Sansa found embroidery to be a comfort, especially whenever Arya left the room to practice her sword-fighting, along with reading some of the books Graige brought her from the Red Keep’s library. She had enough time to herself that she managed to fashion a handkerchief of silken ivory with an image of Winterfell’s godswood, even though her hands had started shaking every time she thought about how much she missed the comfort the heart tree brought her during prayers to the Old Gods.

Somehow, her father snuck Lady into the room with her after the direwolf had a fit in the kennels and started to behave viciously around anyone that wasn’t a Stark. The Grand Maester had nearly had an attack of the heart when he saw the giant wolf draped across the floor beside her cot, but he recovered quick enough when Sansa dipped her fingers into Lady’s thick fur and started to soothe her with calming hymns.

Despite what she’d fallen asleep thinking that first night, Sansa still hadn’t sorted out her feelings for the Hound. She wanted to just tell herself to stop being a silly girl and get her head where it belonged, but she knew that those words would turn into nothing the next time they met. Her sister was right, she had to admit, that didn’t make Sansa’s inner debate any easier, not when her logical reasoning seemed to be thrown out the window the moment she saw him.

She _did_ , however, have time to think about the Joffrey situation. He knew, somehow, about her poisoning before it happened, which meant he had some part in it, but she wanted to know why. What could he gain out of her death? It would likely cause much unrest amongst her people if she were to die in King’s Landing from such an obviously political weapon—poison, she was learning, was a very common weapon in the Red Keep—unless he had a way to ensure the backlash didn’t fall onto him—

“The brilliant bastard,” Sansa gasped as she finally realized why he’d been so nice to her when she clearly hadn’t been interested in him.

If she had died in his court, some suspicion probably would have fallen on him, but he had spent weeks flattering her at every turn. He took her on outings several days a week, had the cooks prepare her precious treats, and bought her that new gown. People had witnessed more than enough kind gestures from him to her, like the lemoncakes he’d had sent to her rooms when she faked a headache a few days prior, and they would likely say as much in a court. There would be dozens of witnesses to his character, claiming that he adored her so and would never be able to poison his Dear Rose.

But why? Why would he want her dead? That was the question she kept coming back to. No matter how long she thought about it, no possible answers revealed themselves to her. She couldn’t even imagine a way in which her death would benefit him. After puzzling over it for hours, Sansa shook her head clear of its thought and returned to her daily hobbies.

It took three whole days of her sitting in bed reading and embroidering for Pycelle to finally agree that she was back in perfect health, although Sansa suspected she could have been released from the healing ward as soon as she woke up after drinking the antidote. She thought, perhaps, the old man liked having her around too much. His beady eyes were quick to gobble her up as soon as he entered her rooms and, when he insisted on examining her, his touches were far too many.

At one point, one of his fingers traced the underside of her breast, lightly enough that she almost didn’t even feel it, but Sansa had hissed at him and grabbed his wrist firmly, saying, “That’s enough, _Maester_.” He hadn’t come by the room to examine her again after that.

When he called for her release, Sansa found her pulse racing at the thought of finally getting to leave the little room she’d been stuck in for days. Although there was a small window, it didn’t let in nearly enough sunshine to warm her cheeks and make her feel like summer itself. The breeze had carried the smell of flowers from the gardens, although those fresh scents were always tinged with the notable stench of King’s Landing.

With thoughts of the sun and beautiful flowers on her mind, Sansa organized a picnic for her and Lady to enjoy in the gardens as soon as she left the healing ward behind. The cooks had looked at her as if she were crazed, but she had chosen not to care about their looks, not when she was about to have a beautiful day in the sun. She even managed to snag a soft blanket of white linen to lay upon the ground so the grass wouldn’t stain her gown, which was simple and unadorned by heavy jewels or glaringly obnoxious embroidery.

“I don’t see why you can’t sit on a blanket _inside_ the keep,” Graige grumbled as he fanned out the blanket she grabbed and laid it carefully on the grass beneath a tree that would provide a fair amount of shade. “It would be safer for you there.”

“I was poisoned _inside_ the keep, in case you forgot,” Sansa reminded not unkindly as she sat on the blanket with a book in her hands. Lady, who’d been gracefully plodding along behind her master, laid down next to Sansa with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. “I think I’ll be safe enough out here.”

Graige rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say anything else as he took his position against a nearby wall and watched for any threats. He had stayed outside her room in the wards for almost the whole three days. It was only after he nearly fell asleep on his feet that her father begged him to go get some rest while another guard relieved him. He’d protested at first, but Arya had called him a Dum-Dum and pointed out that he couldn’t very guard someone if he wasn’t awake. She was under the impression that he’d just woken up from a very long sleep when she’d decided on going for the picnic, but he’d only grumbled and sniped a little before agreeing to guard her.

Before opening her book, Sansa weaved her red locks into a loose braid, hoping to keep a few strands out of her eyes while she read. On a normal day, she wouldn’t even bother, but the breeze was blowing softly, already ruffling the corners of the blanket, and she didn’t want to keep pushing loose strands away from her face as she read. Satisfied with her work, she tied the end of her copper braid off with a blue ribbon she’d taken from her room.

Her book was filled with stories of the dragons of old. Different tales from various corners of the world covered the hundreds of age-crisped pages in the tome, though many of the stories featured Targaryens. Just scanning through the book reminded her of the fables Old Nan used to tell her and her brothers before bed, explaining in great detail the fire and fury of the mystical beasts until each of the children fell asleep.

She read for what could have been hours with the sun shining down on her as lush grass swayed from the rustling of a gentle breeze. Her direwolf lay beside her, happily chewing on the lamb bone her master had snuck from the kitchen, looking for all the world like a content pup. She knew, however, that the wolf would never be truly happy in the South. Just like Sansa, she longed for the cold, whispering winds of the North.

Sansa had finished five chapters of the leatherbound tome when a large shadow fell upon her from behind. She glanced over her shoulder to find none other than the Hound staring down at her, curiosity etched upon his face. With a broad smile on her face, she closed her book and set it aside as she turned around to face him, shushing Lady when the wolf growled ever-so-slightly at the presumed threat standing before her.

“Ser Clegane, what a lovely surprise on such a pleasant day,” Sansa said as she sat back on her haunches and ran a hand through Lady’s fur as she stared up at him, completely aware of the fact that he looked almost like one of the gods with a halo of the sun’s golden rays surrounding his face. “Is there something I can do for you?”

She probably looked a fool, staring up at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him being the Stranger incarnate. Some would say the Warrior suited him more, but she could only see the peace of death in his face. He was shadows and darkness and warmth all wrapped up in one person.

If he noticed her stares, he didn’t say anything about them as he crossed his arms over his chest and grumbled, “Might be I wanted to see if you were well.”

“I am,” Sansa replied as she fiddled with the end of her braid, gingerly tugging at the ribbon gently with her fingers. “I truly am, thanks to you.”

He nodded, just once, as if that were the only answer he needed, and started to turn around to walk away, but she reached out and snatched his wrist the same way she had days ago in the healing ward. She had grasped at him then because she was sure her death was coming soon and hadn’t wanted it to be alone, but she was very much alive as her small hand tried to circle his forearm. She was so alive, and she had no idea what she was doing.

He turned back to her, a question in his gray eyes, but she simply scooted over on the blanket she’d laid out, patted the spot next to her, and said, “Sit, please.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Graige watching her with a wide-eyed gaze. He shook his head at her, but she simply ignored him. If she were in any real danger, Lady would have already attacked and protected, as was her duty. Besides, she felt no danger from the Hound, at least not directed towards her. Somehow, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

His eyes darted from her face to her hand and back to her face before he finally grunted, “Why?”

Her head tilted to the side as she considered his question. Before she could even catch them, words were flying from her mouth. “Might be I wish to thank you for saving my life. Might be I just enjoy your company. Either way, what harm could sitting next to me do?”

With a couple of grumbled curses that shocked her prim ears, the man sat as far away from her as he could on the blanket, though his legs extended off the edge of the blanket for they were too long to fit on the smallish square of fabric. “I didn’t save you for thanks,” he grumbled when he was finally situated. “I just did what any of those cunt knights would have done.”

“But you are not a knight, are you?” Sansa asked, already knowing the answer. He had never sworn any vows, to anyone, not even the Lannisters. They all relied on him because of his loyalty, not his promise of fealty. “All the knights in that room sat by while I was in peril, but you, the non-knight, were the one to save me. Ironic, hmm?”

He stayed quiet.

“What was your punishment?” Sansa asked quietly, though she was dreading the subject. What if he was punished severely because of her? What if he hated her for it? She wanted to shake the thoughts from her head, but she couldn’t help but feel guilty for playing a part in him being hurt if that was the case. “I hope it was nothing too severe, Ser.”

“Couple of lashes,” he said with a wrinkled brow, “and I was taken off the Kingsguard.”

Sansa’s hand came up to cover the gasp threatening to escape past her lips at the mention of him being lashed for protecting her. She knew he had neglected his duty by leaving the king alone, but saving a foreign dignitary should have cleared him of his crime. “Oh, Sandor, I am so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, girl?” he sneered. “It’s not your fault the king’s a little cunt.”

“No, it’s not,” Sansa agreed steadily, although she was trying to hold back the smallest of giggles. Her lips twitched into a wary smile as she placed her hand on his shoulder, ever-so-gently so as not to startle him, and squeezed. “I am sorry, though, that you lost such an impressive position in the king’s court because of me.”

“An impressive position?” he scoffed as a bitter look, completed by narrowed eyes and sternly straight lips, started to make a home on his face. “I am the king’s dog, no matter what color cloak I wear. Is that so impressive?”

“Being on the Kingsguard should be an honor,” Sansa replied automatically, but even she knew that there was nothing honorable about serving Joffrey. Suddenly, she leaned towards him, feeling very brave, and forced him to look her in the eyes. “If you hate the king, why do you stay and protect him? A man of your talents could find another occupation quite easily, I assume.”

She could see the doubt in his eyes, the conflict, but it was washed away by a single blink, leading her to wonder if it had even existed. Instead of answering her question, he tipped his head in Lady’s direction and said, “She the direwolf I’ve been hearing about?”

“This is Lady,” Sansa chirped happily, proud of her pup, but she felt like a part of her was still stuck on the question she’d asked and the look she was sure she had seen in his eyes. It made her wonder all sorts of impossible things that she put aside in favor of something that was real and right in front of her. “She is my most loyal protector.”

“I heard that, Princess,” Graige called out from the wall where he’d been sharpening his sword and glaring at the Hound. “I’m quite offended by being second-rate to a dog.” Lady sat up straight at the word _dog_ as if she knew what it meant, and by the look in her eyes, she didn’t like it. Sansa saw her friend’s throat clench as he swallowed deeply and said, “I mean no offense, Lady. You are the fiercest direwolf.”

Lady laid her head back down, happy enough with the flattery.

Sandor chuckled and murmured, “She certainly is like her mistress.” 

Before she could stop him, he reached out his hand as if to pet her and warning bells rang in Sansa’s head, knowing how Lady liked to snap her teeth at strange men. She opened her mouth to warn him when his hand stopped short of Lady’s muzzle, allowing the direwolf to sniff his outstretched palm, which she did before giving it a little lick and nuzzling her head into it.

“She’s not normally so well-behaved around men,” Sansa said in awe as she watched her fearsome direwolf be reduced to a pup at the hands of Sandor Clegane.

“Guess she likes me,” Sandor grunted, shrugging his shoulders as if it were that high of an accomplishment.

“You have bewitched my direwolf,” Sansa exclaimed incredulously as she watched the two interact, waiting patiently for the wild to snap back into her pet, but Lady simply continued to cozy up to the Hound as if he was the one who’d given her a lamb bone earlier that very day. “They aren’t called _dire_ wolves because of their sweet disposition, Sandor.”

“Aye, I’ve heard the tales,” Sandor replied. “Vicious creatures, these are.” He ran his fingers along the back of the wolf’s ear before scratching just at the base of it, making her back leg thump against the ground riotously. “She might be sweet now, but I’d bet she’d tear my arm off if I went after you.”

“You’d bet right,” Sansa said.

He looked her in the eye and actually held the contact for more than a minute before turning his face away. “I suppose I’ll just have to stay away from you then.” There was a long pause before he belatedly added, “To keep my arm, of course.”

“Right,” Sansa mumbled as something cold swept over her body and crawled into her heart like those worms sometimes did to the apples they harvested in the glass gardens. She knew his words weren’t just a jest about her pet’s violent tendencies. “Of course.”

She should have found relief in the fact that she wouldn’t have to worry about their interactions any longer or think about whether growing an attachment to him was right or wrong. But, she didn’t. There was no solace in the idea of him staying away from her. The thought only ate away at the growing cold spreading across her chest, freezing her from the inside-out until she felt like the spikes of ice that sometimes hung from Winterfell’s towers. It would only be moments before she fell to the ground and shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Or, you could not,” Sansa found herself saying, surprise snaking through her at the words even as they left her lips. She peeked over at him, scared to find something she didn’t like, but she only found confusion in his gaze. “Stay away from me, I mean.”

“Aye, I know what you meant, Little Bird,” he rumbled, and she felt as if she were flying. He was staring at her as if she were some language he couldn’t decipher, a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and she wondered how long he’d spend trying to put her pieces together before he gave up. “I just don’t understand why you meant it.”

“Might be I enjoy your company,” Sansa repeated her words from earlier, though they came out less confidently now than they had before. “Might be I care for you.”

He looked as if he’d been shot through the heart by an arrow, eyes wide and full of a mixture of bewilderment and absolute horror. She watched him blink a couple of times, but the look was still there, even if it seemed to be getting duller with each startled blink. Finally, he shook his head and grumbled, “Might be you shouldn't say things you don't mean.”

“I don’t lie, Sandor.” She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see the rejection on his face before she heard it from his lips. “I care for you.”

“You can’t care for me.”

“And I can’t not care for you either.”

“No, you are not allowed to care for me,” Sandor argued roughly in such a sharp, yet quiet tone that her eyes opened in surprise. Despite the fact that Graige was watching their every move, Sandor reached across the distance and gripped her shoulders in his large paws. His face was a portrait of severity, but she could see the fear still wavering in his eyes. “This is not a place for you to care about anyone, especially not me.”

“Why’s that?” Sansa whispered.

“Because _they_ will use it against you.” His grip on her shoulders tightened, but it was still nowhere near hard enough to hurt, and he forced her to meet his gaze. From the small amount of distance between them, she could feel his warm breath on her cheeks and smell the wine he’d broken his fast with. “You are not safe here, Sansa.”

“I’m safe with you,” Sansa replied with a surety that she hadn’t felt about anything else in King's Landing.

“For now.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a statement.

She knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

He looked at her for a long time, though, as if he was pondering the question, but she knew he was trying to harden his heart and hide whatever emotions he was feeling. His hands gave him away as they trembled on her shoulders. After a moment, he shook his head and released her from his grasp. “No, Little Bird,” he whispered in a rasp that made her stomach flutter. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know.” 

A silence grew between them as they both contemplated what this meant. Sansa had no idea what Sandor was thinking, but she knew what she wanted, even if the idea was laughable in itself. Gods, she felt like one of the maidens in the song, beautiful and stupid. If this was a song, it would surely end a tragedy.

Sansa wanted to ask him to travel back to the North with them, to join her household guard, but she had no idea how to form the words. For once, she felt as eloquent as Arya, who was known for being as uncouth as their wild little brother, Rickon. A small piece of doubt had settled inside her stomach, telling her that he would reject the idea, that he would stay in King’s Landing, that he would laugh in her face.

“Tell me of the North,” Sandor said out-of-the-blue, forcing her out of her own mind. She turned to him with startled blue eyes. His lips had somehow curved upwards into the smallest of half-smiles, almost as if he were smirking, but, no, that was just his smile. “I’ve never been farther than the Neck.”

“Tell you about the North,” Sansa repeated dumbly, feeling as if she had just broken through a heavy fog and was only just starting to see clearly again. “It’s cold, much colder than it ever gets here.”

“I figured that much,” Sandor mumbled, and it took her a moment to realize he was teasing her.

She rolled her eyes at him before continuing, “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.” A sigh left her lips as she conjured images of her home, finding them easily in her mind’s eye. “When the snow covers the land and the sun beams down from the sky, the whole kingdom looks as though it were made of crystals.”

“We are a harsh people, it’s true, but everybody is kind and generous.” Sansa thought of the baker’s family in the winter town and how they always gave away their day-old bread to the poor during the coldest of winter days. “We have found our own sort of joy that doesn’t hold with fanciful things such as tournaments and jewel-adorned gowns.”

“In the summer, when the snow begins to melt, the land is covered in the lushest grasses I’ve ever seen, bright and soft beneath the toes.” She inhaled deeply as if she could somehow find the fresh pine that always drifted along the Northern breezes, but all she smelled was the unpleasant odor of King’s Landing. “Flowers spring up from every corner for girls to craft into little crowns to wear atop their heads.”

When her eyes fluttered open, the first thing Sansa saw was Sandor staring at her as if she were a vision he couldn’t quite comprehend, eyes wide and wistful, lips slightly parted. She felt a blush creep onto her cheeks at the heady feeling she could see in his gaze, but she turned her face away before he couldn’t notice the pink climbing up her neck and into her face.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Sansa asked shyly, her voice soft and small in a way it hadn’t been in years.

Sandor started to say something, but the words died on his lips when the clanking of armor became apparent to their ears, signaling the approach of several guards. They both knew immediately that it could only mean one thing: Joffrey was headed in their direction. Sandor stood immediately and backed away from the blanket by more than a couple steps, leaving Sansa alone with Lady on the blanket.

Even though her eyes were closed with unease, she still knew the moment Joffrey caught sight of her and his favorite plaything by the malicious chuckles that erupted from his guards. Her eyes fluttered open as she heard their footsteps coming closer and closer to find Joffrey, his usual cruel streak bright and burning in his eyes, with an ensemble of nearly a dozen guards following closely behind.

“Dog,” Joffrey called out as his eyes skipped over her completely and landed on Sandor, “isn’t there somewhere else you should be?”

“I was just asking after the princess’s health after the incident,” Sandor explained, not lying but definitely not telling the whole truth.

Joffrey laughed and shook his head. “I don’t think she cares about your concern, you old mutt.”

Something burned inside Sansa at Joffrey’s words, and she wanted to stand up to the boy, to defend Sandor, but she forced herself to sit still. She remembered Sandor’s words about how caring for him would be used against her. He was right, she knew it, so she forced herself to stay silent, even as her teeth dug into her bottom lip to keep her from spouting out something she’d likely regret in the long run.

“How about you go guard something?” Joffrey asked snippily while waving his hands around in a random direction. “It’s not like you have anything else to do on your time off. Even the whores won’t allow you near them.”

Through the whole conversation, Sansa managed to keep herself quiet and seated on the blanket like a demure lady, even as she bit so hard into her lip that it started bleeding. She turned away from the men to dab at the blood with a handkerchief she’d embroidered years ago of some ducklings in a pond, but the conversation was over before she finished cleaning herself up. By the time she turned around, Sandor was already walking away with his shoulders hunched and his head down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not sure how happy I am with this chapter, but I've already re-written it twice. Please let me know if you guys like it!
> 
> We got some more Lady in this chapter, which I'm super happy about. Being home all day with my dogs since all my classes have been moved online has made me really dog-happy. I might end up projecting that onto this story with the direwolves. We might see a little bit of Nymeria soon!
> 
> Also, I've come to the conclusion that I shouldn't add in OC's anymore because I get too attached to them. Graige has officially become my favorite now. Originally, I was planning on killing him off later on, but that has like a 0% chance of happening now because I love him so much.
> 
> Anyway, just tell me what you guys are thinking! I love getting feedback.


	6. Chapter Six

Lady laid strewn across the floor in front of Sansa, keeping her master’s bare feet warm beneath her silken fur, as Sansa worked on a new piece of embroidery. Her deft fingers quickly weaved her needle in and out of the black silk she’d chosen for her new piece. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, she had chosen the morose color for what she thought could be a new handkerchief. She’d seen it in the market earlier whilst walking with King Joffrey—the stroll had been just as torturous as usual—and hadn’t been able to restrain herself from purchasing it, even if the Dornish merchant’s wandering eyes had annoyed her to no end.

She found herself enjoying the simple pleasure of needlework as she hadn’t been able to in the past weeks of their stay in King’s Landing. It had been far easier to focus on Joffrey and his intentions or Cersei and her cruel grins or any of the other dozens of problems that seemed to be arising daily. Like how they still hadn’t heard anything from Stannis, which worried her much more than her father. He didn’t seem disheartened whenever she mentioned it, but she was sure it meant something, something bad.

This day, however, had brought her nothing but peace. The boy-king had kindly decided not to grace her with his presence while he attended some _meetings_ ; although, Sansa was curious as to what kind of royal meeting could deem a crossbow necessary. She had forced herself to shove away her worries in his absence. With a platter of delicious lemoncakes and a glass of sweet wine, it had been almost too easy to turn her attention to peace, not planning.

Out of the blue, Lady rose from her position at Sansa’s feet, her head up and her back straight, her eyes stuck on the door as if she knew what was on the other side. Before Sansa could even rise to reach for her dagger, Arya burst through the door with her sword in hand, red-faced and covered in what could only be sweat.

“Bloody hells,” Arya exclaimed as she swiped the sleeve of her thin tunic across her forehead. She dropped her blade to the floor with an unceremonious clatter before snatching a flagon of water from a nearby table and gulping it down with the hearty enthusiasm of which she normally ate her meals. “It’s hotter than a desert in Dorne out there.”

“Is it?” Sansa asked, though she already knew how hot it was outside. She could feel the heat through the window in front of which she sat. It almost felt comfortable on her shoulders, shaking away the chill of fear that seemed to be hanging over her like a cloak these past weeks, but it was nowhere near as consoling as the sweetness of Winter wind. “Is that why your dance lesson is over so quickly?”

“Aye,” Arya answered as she finally slammed the empty flagon back on the table and bent over to pick her sword up from the ground. She threw herself down on one of the ornate couches decorating their solar and started to sharpen Needle in the way their father had once taught them. “Syrio said it was too bloody hot for us to practice properly.”

“I can believe that,” Sansa replied as she turned her head towards the window and let her cheek rest against the glass for as long as she was able to before it started to burn. “Is he quite good at what he does?” she asked, suddenly curious about her sister’s newest tutor in swordplay. “This Syrio Forel?”

Arya’s eyes lit up as she tried to keep a broad smile from her face. “His technique is so different from the way we were taught.” She continued to sharpen her sword, but Sansa could see the brightness and the joy in her cheeks. “You would like it, I think. It’s almost like dancing, graceful and light and all that shit.”

“ _Arya_ , you know how Mother hates when you use such foul words,” Sansa admonished gently, yet sternly, uncaring for her sister’s foul tongue. She peeked up from her embroidery to find her sister still sharpening that thin blade of hers. “When we return to Winterfell, she should surely faint to hear you speak in such a way.”

“She’s not here now, though,” Arya pointed out with a sly grin as she finally sat aside her sword with a gentle hand. “I’ve almost grown attached to King’s Landing. I don’t have to wear a dress in this godsforsaken city, even if it smells like shit.”

“There are worse things in this world than having to wear a dress, Little Sister,” Sansa reminded her in a carefully measured tone, just in case there was a sneaking fly on the wall. Her sister needed to be mindful of King’s Landing and its treacheries, but Sansa couldn’t just come out and say that, not when she didn’t know whose spy was listening and when. “You could be forced into a marriage of which you have no choice.”

 _Like I could be,_ were Sansa’s unspoken words. Arya’s narrowed eyes told Sansa that her sister understood her meaning. “I am confident that our lord father would never agree to a marriage without our consents.”

“You are right, Sweet Sister,” Sansa replied, even if she didn’t believe the words. At this point, there was very little holding Joffrey back from taking her as his bride. Her father was quickly running out of things to discuss about their treaty during his meetings with the Small Council, and it was evident that the young king was getting more and more impatient by the day, and it showed. “I do so hope you are right.”

“Has anyone heard anything from Winterfell?” Arya asked, swiftly changing the subject.

“Not that I know of,” Sansa answered as she thought back to the last time she’d received a raven from her home. It had been a week at the very least. “I’m sure everyone is just busy with Father gone. Robb must be beside himself with kingly duties.”

Arya snickered. “Better him than Bran.”

Sansa giggled, thinking about their young brother holding court. The young man was noble, for sure, but he preferred to spend his time training for knighthood or reading. When he wasn’t warging into Summer or glimpsing things unseen by others, that is. “Better Bran than Rickon!”

“Oh gods,” Arya exclaimed as her eyes widened with humor. “Can you just imagine?”

Whereas Bran had a calming disposition, Rickon was as wild as the men Beyond the Wall. He spent many nights sleeping beneath the stars in the godswood and used his days to run free with Shaggydog, his direwolf. While their mother still tried to tame the little ruffian, all the Starks knew there was no gentling the youngest of their pack.

“He’s young still,” Sansa said thoughtfully as she pondered over the boy with barely ten years of age under his belt. “His wildness may yet steady itself.”

Before her sister could say anything else, their father stormed through the doors of their borrowed chambers with a foul look upon his face. He was grumbling something under his breath as he strode across the solar and into his personal study. Although he didn’t gesture for them to follow, Sansa needed to know what was going on, so she rose from her seat at the window and all-but ran into his study.

“Father,” Sansa said as she gently closed the door behind her and sat in one of the chairs before his cluttered desk. She watched as he paced along the farthest wall of the room for a long while before finally sighing and almost throwing himself down into his chair. “What has happened?”

“Joffrey is going to ask for your hand during the tourney on the morrow.”

It was a simple sentence. To any other girl in Westeros, it might have even brought them joy to hear such words. But Sansa felt her heart clench painfully in her chest as the words fell from her father’s lips. She could always refuse, that much was true, but Joffrey’s foul temper led her to wonder what he would do upon such an action. He had already alluded to a war if she was not his betrothed by the end of her family’s stay, though she could not understand why he would go to such drastic matters for her hand.

“It won’t matter,” Sansa proclaimed with the same conviction her mother once taught her to speak with, sounding much braver than she truly felt. “Once Stannis arrives—,”

“We haven’t received word from Stannis,” her father interjected as he massaged his temples with his forefingers. “Without knowledge of his plans, we cannot put our hope and faith in his help.”

Sansa knew he was right, of course she did, but that didn’t mean she wanted to admit defeat. She sighed as she leaned back into her seat, slouching in a way that Septa Mordane would certainly chastise her for, and thought hard on a new course of action. “What could we possibly do?” she asked aloud as she chewed lightly on her bottom lip. “If I refuse him, he will certainly wage war simply for spite. His behavior is that of a child, uncaring of consequences.”

“If you accept his proposal,” her father said carefully, “you will be nothing but a slave for him to beat until your skin is painted black and blue bruises.”

Sansa’s eyes widened in shock at her father’s words. He was right, that was of no surprise to her, but she had no idea that he was knowledgeable of Joffrey’s true nature. She had just thought he knew of the boy’s ignorance and childish nature, even though she was certain that there was no hiding the boy king’s propensity for cruelty and violence.

“Are there no other options?” she asked after a moment.

“We could ride for Winterfell in the dead of night and hope he doesn’t not take it as a slight,” her father suggested, though she knew it was not a true option. “Offer him Arya and hope she guts him before he even has the chance to lay a finger on her.”

“Gods, she would.”

“I’m afraid our only alternatives at the moment are war and your death.”

“He would not kill me,” Sansa stated before she remembered that he actually _would_ kill her. He had already tried to poison her, or so she thought, though she still had not figured out his purpose in such an attack. “I do not think he would kill me if I were his wife.”

“Being dead is different from having someone kill your very soul.” Her father’s eyes drifted far away, looking into a space that she knew was the past. Her father was no greenseer like Bran, but she knew that his trauma came to his mind as clearly as Bran’s visions. She wondered which horrible memory he was thinking of now. “You have such a beautiful soul, Daughter, that he would destroy it simply for the fun.”

“He would destroy it no matter if it was beautiful or ugly,” Sansa said, mostly to herself, as she thought about what a future with him as her husband might hold for her. “I believe it is the only thing that brings him joy.”

“I won’t let him have you, Sansa.” Her father reached across his desk to take her hand and squeeze it gently for comfort. “I swear it on the Old Gods.”

Sansa knew her father’s honor would hold him responsible for such a vow, but she wasn’t sure if she was truly worth going to war for. And, she had to wonder if she could even go through with refusal if she knew it would brew such a conflict. Was her own happiness worth the lives of hundreds? Thousands? She knew it was not. And yet, she still said, “I believe you, Father,” before pulling her hand away from his and rising from her seat. “This may very well be the last night we are welcome in King’s Landing. Might as well enjoy it, right?”

Her father absentmindedly nodded as he started to pour over the papers scattered across his desk with weary eyes. He looked so exhausted, much more so than she’d ever seen him in Winterfell, although there had been days when the shadows beneath his eyes could have outnumbered the shadows of the night. She almost asked if there was something she could help him with, but she knew he would simply turn her away with words of kindness and concern.

Arya was waiting expectantly in the solar, but Sansa passed her by with only a, “I will be gone for a while” as a parting word as she called for Lady to follow her through the doors and into the winding halls of the Red Keep.

Though Lady trotted dutifully behind her, Sansa couldn’t shake away the feeling that there was something wrong, that something bad was going to happen. It was in every shaking breath she took and the way her hair seemed to stand on end. Gooseflesh seemed to pop up along her arms, despite the length of her sleeves and the warmth of the day, as she walked through the halls her hand held in front of the pocket that hid her dagger.

“Gods, this place has made me paranoid,” Sansa mumbled as she found she had been strolling through the corridors for nearly a half an hour and only passed by overworked servants.

The relative calm she found after such a long time with no threats was washed away with a voice she knew to be snake-like, despite its charm, calling out to her from behind. Reluctantly, she turned to lock eyes with Petyr Baelish whose smile was almost like that of a cat with its mischievous, untrustworthy twist.

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa greeted with a dip of her head. She hoped the smile on her face did not seem too forced, though she was sure it wilted with every passing moment. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, My Lord.”

“The pleasure is always mine, Princess,” Baelish said in a low, simpering tone. He came to a stop only a few feet away from her before dipping into a smooth bow that even Septa Mordane would have been proud of if any of the Stark boys could have accomplished such a feat. “You are as lovely as ever in that gown, Your Highness.”

Sansa’s hands swept over the skirt of her new gown. It was another present from the crown, though this time it had been delivered by Cersei herself. She had said, “For you, Little Dove,” as she watched one of the maids pass off the silken gown of a dusty rose coloring to Sansa’s handmaiden. Despite where the dress had come from, Sansa had loved how it brought out the red in her hair, making the blue in her eyes seem more vibrant. The feeling of admiration for the gown disappeared when she saw how Lord Baelish’s eyes appraised the figure she cut in it.

“It was a present from the dowager queen,” Sansa replied carefully, unsure as to what she could say in front of this man. “I am extremely grateful for it.”

“The dowager queen,” Baelish repeated with a frown that seemed more genuine than any of his signature half-smiles. “I had heard you might soon become Cersei’s gooddaughter, though I don’t put much stock in rumors.”

“I might,” Sansa said.

“It would be a shame if you did,” Baelish stated in a low voice that made her shiver for all the wrong reasons as he reached out and stroked her cheek with the tip of his finger. “Joffrey is not known to be kind to the whores he buys from my brothel.”

Sansa’s eyes almost widened at the information he had just divulged about himself to her, even though she had known been told of his business ventures by Joffrey during their first outing in the gardens, but she managed to keep her expressions under check. It would not do for Petyr Baelish to know her face as well as she knew it. “I was not aware of your _occupation_ , Lord Baelish.”

“Tis but a simple business,” Baelish said, waving it away as if it were nothing. “Are you excited for the wedding, then? It will be the greatest event in all of Westeros.”

“I am sure it will be quite spectacular,” Sansa remarked dryly.

“The wedding night, though, is what will be ingrained in your memory until your red hair has turned gray with age,” Baelish declared with such a surety that she almost questioned whether he’d ever been married. She knew he had not. “For maidens, it is quite an experience.”

Sansa’s cheeks started to flame with a rush of blood as she came to a sudden halt. “I do not believe this is an appropriate conversation for us to hold, Lord Baelish.” 

“Of course, of course,” Baelish agreed halfheartedly, as though he could not see the lack of propriety in his words. When he turned to her, his eyes blazed with mischief and something else, something that she did not like. “I was only thinking that it is quite a shame that only a maid may go to the king’s marriage bed.”

Once more, Sansa froze in her spot as his words stuck to something in her mind. _Only a maid may go to the king’s marriage bed._ Gods, it was the simplest of solutions, one they had never considered. Of course, her father might have had the thought, but he would have never voiced such an idea before her, not when a lady’s maidenhood meant everything in the world they lived. It meant so much that it could save a woman from an unwanted marriage.

“Forgive me, Lord Baelish,” Sansa uttered as her mind began to swim with a thousand possibilities that seemed to call out to her from every angle, all screaming for one thing because there was only one true thing to do. “I believe I am feeling under the weather.”

Before Baelish could even offer any pleasantries, Sansa was nearly sprinting away, taking the twisting halls as quickly as if she knew them by heart. At this point, she almost did. Lady followed her with ease, having legs almost the length of a small pony’s, but she slowed ever-so-slightly for the animal when she saw how ferocious she looked when she ran. It would not do for the people of the Red Keep to think of her as a foul beast.

A quick peek out of the nearest windows and the sight of the sun setting told Sansa that the evening meal was far past served and over with. While her family had always supped after the moon rose in the sky, the Southerners seemed to choose to do it before the setting of the sun, though she was not sure for what purpose. Perhaps her family’s customs were the strange ones, not the Southerners.

It didn’t matter, she decided, as she knew that everyone would be back in their rooms at this time. This realization made her feet fly faster beneath her, causing Lady to pick up speed once again. If she were in her right mind, she would have simply been strolling along, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary, to contain the suspicions of others, but she couldn’t bring herself to calm her feet when her heart was beating at a maddeningly fast pace.

This was how she found herself at Sandor Clegane’s door.

Standing face-to-face with the wooden door she knew to be his, Sansa let out a whoosh of breath and knocked lightly before she could even stop herself. Inside, she heard a loud grunt and the sound of furniture colliding with the stone floors before his heavy footsteps became available to her ears. As she listened to his approach, she started to think about running back to her chambers and forgetting all about this foolishness, but the door was swinging open before she could even turn away from it.

She held her breath as Sandor’s face switched from a mask of annoyance to wide-eyed confusion. “Little Bird,” he breathed as he looked her over with a raised brow. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I have something to ask of you,” Sansa said without thinking. She started to wring her hands around each other as she lowered her eyes to where her slippers were just barely peeking out from the embroidered hem of her gown. “May I come inside?”

He backed away a step and opened the door slightly more to let her through, though she could see the wariness in his gaze. Lady pranced along behind her and instantly started nudging Sandor’s chest with her large snout. As soon as both princess and dog were inside the room, he closed the door with a jolting slam that nearly made her jump right out of her skin. She gasped in surprise, earning an apologetic grunt from him.

“What do you want to ask me?” he questioned as soon as the door was closed.

“It’s not something you’ll be pleased with,” Sansa warned him, knowing that he would not care for the hare-brained plan Littlefinger had dropped into her mind. “Do you still wish to hear it?”

“Aye.”

Sansa thrummed her fingers against the table she suspected he ate his meals at as she tried to think of a way to speak her request without blushing from head-to-toe. “Have you heard of Joffrey’s newest endeavor?” she asked lightly, trying to make her voice so casual.

“How the little shit plans to ask for your hand?” Sandor paused as his eyes narrowed into a suspicious glare. He waited for her to nod before saying, “Aye, I’ve heard of it. What of it?”

“I’m afraid I’m running out of choices.” Sansa crossed her arms over her chest and forced herself to look him dead in the eyes. “If I marry him, he’ll make me wish I was dead, won’t he?” Sandor was silent long enough that she knew his answer. “And if I do not agree to marry him, he’ll wage a war on my lands and people.”

“Are you about to ask me to kill the king for you?” Sandor asked in a voice that told her he would not be opposed to such a suggestion.

“No,” Sansa answered with surety, though the image of the man before her slaughtering the boy king did give her pause, “I’m asking you to do something that would make me unfit to be Joffrey’s wife.”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “What would that be, Little Bird?”

It seemed like every ounce of blood in her body rushed into her cheeks as she whispered, “Bed me,” in such a low voice that the winds whipping around outside seemed to carry it off. 

He leaned forward with even more confusion growing on his face. It almost seemed as if he heard her, but he couldn’t believe what she’d said. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Bed me.” The words were loud and clear this time. “I need you to bed me.” A look of horror grew on his face, breaking a little piece in her heart that she hadn’t known was there, but she ignored it as she said, “If I am not a maiden, I cannot marry a king.”

“You can lose your damned head, though,” Sandor nearly shouted as his lips thinned into a straight, immovable line. “And mine while you're at it.”

“I’d rather lose my head than my soul!” Sansa shouted desperately as tears started to build in her eyes, threatening to block out her vision. She blinked furiously to clear them away, but it only pushed a few past her lashes. “He’ll rip me to shreds, inside and out.”

In truth, she hadn’t even thought about the punishment Sandor would receive for such a crime, but she knew she wouldn’t give him up. They could call her a whore and throw her on a pyre for all she cared. If they asked, she would say her maidenhood was stolen by some traveler as he passed through the winter town. She wouldn’t give a name, mayhaps she would say she didn’t know the man’s name. Let them think her a whore if they wished.

“I’ll not ruin you when there’s always another choice.” Sandor ran a hand through his dark hair, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the tears streaking down her cheeks. “We’ll find the other choice, Sansa.”

“I’ve gone through all the choices and solutions in my head, Sandor,” Sansa snarled as she swiped the silken sleeve of her dress over her wet cheeks, uncaring of the tear stains the action left behind on the fine fabric. “There is _no_ other choice, not for me.” She reached for him, curling her grasping hands in the thin leather of his tunic. “Please, Sandor, I can’t marry him.”

“I won’t take you,” he said as he pulled her into a warm embrace and smoothed his hands down her back in comforting strokes, “but he’ll not have you.”

“How are you planning on stopping a king?” Sansa murmured against his chest, fearful he would try to fight his way through some unforeseen obstacle and die trying. “I don’t wish to be responsible for your death.”

“Might be I’ll steal you away to some corner of the world where nobody’s even heard of Joffrey,” he suggested in a low voice, causing his chest to rumble against her pleasantly. “We’ll run away in the night with that direwolf of yours.”

“The last time a man stole away a Stark woman, it ended in a war,” Sansa reminded him with a small giggle as she felt some of her worries melt away. “Do you wish to start a war?”

“For a Little Bird like you,” he tilted his head back as if pondering the repercussions of it before he leaned back down and caught her gaze, “I might consider it.”

She felt a blush creep onto her cheeks as she bit into her bottom lip. His eyes followed the action, making her heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. “Sandor,” she leaned closer to him as her words flew from her mouth without a second thought for the second time that night, “can I ask for a different favor?”

His gaze returned to hers as his arms tightened around her waist. “Aye, I suppose you can.”

Her eyes drifted down to his lips as she remembered how the scarred skin of his cheek had felt beneath her kiss and wondered if the scars on his lips would feel the same. She rose up on her tiptoes so her eye level was near to his chin. “Can I—,”

Her words were drowned out by a cacophony of noise from outside his door. A sudden pounding on the door had Sandor shoving her into a hidden corner of the room as Meryn Trant’s vomit-inducing voice called through the door, telling Sandor that he was needed in the king’s room for some kind of cleaning.

When the men outside were gone, Sandor looked over at her with something dark brewing in his gaze, though she knew the anger she found there was not directed at her. “I best go, Little Bird, before the cunt king gets sick of staring at the mess he made.”

Something about the way he said it made Sansa think that the mess was not the usual sort. She knew of Joffrey’s cruel nature, of the chill in his eyes that never failed to make her shudder, and Baelish’s words about Joffrey and his whores came back to life in her mind, about how he is not known for his kindness with the women.

“Does he kill them?” Sansa asked as all the heat from earlier disappeared from her body.

“Sometimes.”

“He’ll kill me.”

“He won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?” she snapped as fear flooded her body. She felt her forgotten tears rising again as her heart started to thunder wildly in her chest. “If he can kill those poor girls, he’ll surely find it easy to send me to the godsforsaken Stranger.”

“No one will hurt you, or I’ll kill them,” Sandor said as he grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look at him. He shook her gently, trying to get her to calm down, and shook his head at her tears. “You hear me? I’ll kill them all, even that cunt king.”

And, despite everything in her mind telling her not to listen to a man known for his loyalty to the Lannisters, Sansa believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually a whopper, but I'm really proud of it! Sorry for all the little slow-burn-ending teases I put in there! You guys almost got both a kiss and smut, but I flipped my switch for both of those things for DRAMA. Anywho, hope you don't hate me too much for it. Also, this lockdown better end real soon because my stupid brain keeps giving me ideas for more SanSan fics while I still have two ongoing fics. One minutes it's shouting, "Ooo, a Witch AU would be cool!" and then it's like, "Sansa would make an awesome Little Mermaid!"


	7. Chapter Seven

The tourney grounds were bustling with men and women from all across the Six Kingdoms. Lords and Ladies carefully strolled the wet grounds, looking down upon the smallfolk that strode jovially through the muck. If their carefree smiles were anything to go by, the peasant women didn’t seem to mind the stains left behind on the hems of their gowns, nor did the men seem to notice about the dirt on their boots.

The number of overflowing tents made quite a spectacle, Sansa had to admit, but her nerves were too frantic to allow her to actually enjoy the festivities. Though many a boy had asked to lead her in a dance when a bard brought out a lyre, she declined each one for fear that her legs would give out underneath her in the midst of it. The wine given to her by the royal cupbearer turned her stomach into a twisted ball of knots that she couldn’t figure out how to ease.

Dutifully as always, Lady sat at her side with her ears held high as her eyes calming observing the comings and goings of every passerby. Sansa knew her wolf felt at least a twinge of her anxiety, though she had no proof of it. She could see it in the way the scruff of fur around her neck stood on end ever-so-slightly and how she held her body stiffly with a predatory stillness. It made Sansa wonder if Lady was preparing for a fight she couldn’t possibly foresee.

Arya and Nymeria sat a few rows down from them, slouched and looking rather put-out by all the propriety of the event. Father had insisted that Nymeria be bathed so as not to offend some lady’s delicate nose while Arya had been forced into one of the few dresses Mother had been able to pack away in her luggage before they departed for King’s Landing. As much of a hassle as getting the gown on her had been, situating the wild girl’s hair into something other than a nest of tangles had nearly caused Sansa to lose an eye.

Sansa was proud of her handiwork, though, as she stared down at the intricate braid she’d weaved onto the crown of Arya’s head. It could have matched her own styling, but Sansa had left half of her own hair unbound so that it fell down her shoulders in a waterfall of red curls. She had known while fashioning Arya’s locks that all of it would have to be confined to keep the wind from returning it to the ratty mess it usually became.

Her father startled her out of her thoughts as he came to sit beside her, looking as uneasy as her direwolf as he tugged at the long sleeves of his gray tunic. He tipped his head in the direction of his youngest daughter and said, “You should seat yourself beside Arya before the tournament begins, eh?” His gaze swept over the crowd, clearly showing his mistrust as he narrowed his eyes. “I want you both to stay together.”

Although it was not spoken aloud, Sansa heard the  _ in case something happens  _ loud and clear in her head. She gave her father a clear nod as she clucked her tongue at Lady and stood from the bench. Before heading down to sit next to her sister, she rested a hand on her father’s shoulder and squeezed as she whispered, “Please be safe, Father.”

She had no idea why she said it. If he planned to do something foolish, he had not yet let her in on his little plan, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen. She was no witch or wise woman, though. Her intuition was simply one formed from suspicion of the king’s intentions. Not for the first time, Sansa wished she had been given the gift of the sight like her younger brother, though she wasn’t sure if she would like all she could see with his eyes.

Her legs wobbled beneath her as she made her way down the steps towards where Arya was seated. It felt as if every eye in the stands was stuck on her, but she kept her chin held high and her back straight in the way her mother had always taught her.  _ This is the posture of a queen, Sansa,  _ she would say as she tapped the bottom of Sansa’s chin the palm of her hand.  _ It will serve you well when you need it most. _

Sansa knew now that her mother had meant that it would be a great way to catch the eye of many suitors, yet the regality of the stance made her feel as if she were above all the stares sent her way. She conjured the dignity of her mother to help her stand tall as she finally reached the bottom of the steps and slid onto the bench next to Arya. From this spot, she had a clearer view of the fields and what she saw there made her freeze.

Gregor Clegane.

It was him, there was no doubting that fact. He looked to be as big as a mountain, which she belatedly realized was probably the reason behind his infamous pseudonym. She had always it sounded dumb before—when her brothers had told her tales of a knight dubbed  _ The Mountain  _ she had snorted at what had seemed like a lackluster and dull name to her child’s mind—but seeing him made the name a fearsome presence in the back of her mind.

_ He could crush me to death in his bare hands,  _ Sansa thought dumbly as she stared at the monster with a wide, petrified gaze. This man had shoved the face of a child of no more than seven into a blazing fire, and the child had been his brother no less. It made her wonder, however briefly, what he would do to someone whose blood he did not share, but she couldn’t lead herself to those imaginings without shuddering at the gruesome thoughts that came to mind.

She thought back to the list of men competing in the events, trying to remember if she’d seen the Mountain’s name on it, but her mind came up blank. She hadn’t noticed a Clegane on the listing, aside from Sandor. A puddle of nerves built up in stomach as her suspicion grew to new heights. What could the Mountain be doing here in King’s Landing, if not competing in the tourney? Something was not right.

Sansa turned her gaze away from him to focus on Arya, trying to settle the nerves threatening to overtake her. Her young sister was leaning forward with her chin propped against the palm of her hand, watching the comings-and-goings of people with grave interest. One of her hands stroked through the fur at the base of her direwolf’s head, though the movements were made automatically and not with the usual fervor that Arya typically concentrated on her pet.

“Are you okay, Arya?” Sansa asked in a quiet voice as she smoothed her hands across the dark gray skirt of her satin gown. Her sister bolted upright at the sound of Sansa’s voice, her eyes as wide as Sansa’s had been only a moment before. “Sorry for frightening you. You just looked very focused on—,”

“Can you feel it?” Arya cut her off, her question spoken in the most serious of voices the young girl had afforded to anyone. It was only then that she noticed her sister’s hands were trembling and her face was as pale as the moon on a dark night. “Do you feel the bad in the air?”

Sansa’s mind put the question on repeat for her over and over again—

_ Do you feel the bad in the air?  _

_ Do you feel the bad in the air?  _

_ Do you feel the bad in the air?  _

—before she finally understood what her sister’s words meant. “Are you saying that you can feel it, too?” Sansa asked in a voice that wavered from the terror that gripped her throat and squeezed until there was no room left for anything but a slip of air to breathe.

“Yes,” Arya replied softly with a simple nod, “I feel like something’s wrong, Sansa.” Her hands buried themselves in the soft fur of Nymeria’s neck and clenched around it as if it were a doll she needed to hold on tightly to. “I think something really bad is going to happen.”

Sansa’s heart stopped at her sister’s words, knowing that they were exactly what she had been thinking all through the morning. People could say they were being paranoid or overly-suspicious, but she knew those people would be dead wrong. They were not witches or wise women, that much was true, but they had their intuitions all the same. It flowed through the veins alongside their Stark blood, perhaps it  _ was _ their Stark blood.

Sansa grasped for her sister’s hand and clutched it tightly within her own as she turned to her with an intensity in her eyes that forced Arya to hold her gaze. “Listen to me, you cannot mention this feeling to anyone.” She waited for Arya to nod to continue. “All we have to do is make it through the end of the tourney, alright?” Again, she stopped long enough to see a response of some sort from her sister before forging onward. “Once it is over, we will pack our bags and return to the North.”

It was a cruel lie. 

They both knew it.

At the very least, Arya would be able to begin the journey back to Winterfell with their father once the tournament came to an end, leaving Sansa behind to wed a boy of the coldest nature. Their trip would be weighed down with the guilt of abandoning her and the fear of what the king’s cruel whims would push upon her.

That was the best scenario.

The worst would be Sansa’s refusal of Joffrey’s proposal leading to a war where they would be the first set of hostages to wield against the North.

“Look,” Arya pointed to the tourney grounds in an attempt at enthusiasm, “I think the tournament is about to begin.”

True enough, the tourney began in full-force. Though she had heard some of these festivals generally included matches of archery, ax-throwing, and other such arts, this one only consisted of a number of duels. As a celebration for King Joffrey’s upcoming nameday, she had expected more pomp from the big-headed king, but she supposed anything that consisted of swords and blood was enough to please him.

Sansa had also been at least partly shocked when she was not invited to join him in the luxurious box reserved for the family and friends of the royal family, not that the lack of invitation bothered her one bit. She actually found that she quite enjoyed not having to listen to Joffrey prattle on and on about how he could do far better than any of the knights on the field. His skinny, muscleless arms told her otherwise.

As she observed the tourney with cautious eyes, Sansa finally began to understand the attitudes many Northern lords had towards them. It seemed like a frivolous waste of time to sit and watch men fight each other for no reason. In the North, this would simply be called  _ training _ . Her people had enough to worry about with the Wildings constantly coming down in droves to raid the villages closest to the Wall without adding to their stresses by setting-up such extravagant affairs that seemed to serve no true purpose.

That thought turned itself upside down, however, when Sandor took the field. His sword shone in the sunlight as he stalked across the field to meet his opponent, Ser Loras Tyrell. She had heard people whisper something about a knight of flowers, but she shoved that nonsense from her mind as she watched the two men circle each other. The Tyrell man looked almost like the Imp in comparison to Sandor’s mighty build.

Sansa wondered if this so-called Knight of Flowers was scared as he looked upon the behemoth that towered over him by several heads of space. She knew she would be quaking in her boots if she had been matched up against a man like Sandor in such a duel, even if killing was considered a little taboo in such an event, but perhaps Ser Loras was more courageous than the typical man. After all, he hadn’t wet himself and ran from the yard yet.

_ Growing Strong, indeed,  _ Sansa thought to herself with an amused giggle as she watched Ser Loras swing his sword against Sandor to no luck. The Hound defended himself against the other man’s advances with swift dodges and brutal blocks, although he had yet to raise his own sword in offense against the knight.

“He’s tiring him out,” Arya muttered to Sansa, who agreed with a nod. It was one of the many tricks they’d been taught while training with their own weapons. They didn’t have the natural strength of men at their sides, but the girls were quick on their feet and able to evade attacks with ease. “The stupid flower knight won’t be able to go much longer like that.”

Again, her sister was right. The match only lasted a few more moments before the knight’s movements grew sluggish and slow from expending all his energy on trying to break through Sandor’s impenetrable defenses. It only took a good bash of Sandor’s sword against his shield to send the knight flying to the ground. Before he could bring himself back to his feet, the tip of a sword was pointed above where his clavicle would be beneath his armor.

Sansa watched with narrowed eyes as Joffrey rose from his ornate chair to announce the news of the Hound’s victory to the stands. Very few people cheered for the man, aside from Sansa and Arya, as most looked upon the grounds with distastefully curled lips and hatred burning in their eyes. She wondered what he’d done to those people to earn their dislike, but a part of her knew it was most likely because of the scars on his face and those silly rumors people spread around about him. Most of the people in the stands had probably never even met him.

Before making his victory circle around the tournament arena on his black stead, Sandor deposited his hound-shaped helm over his head, covering the scars from view. She knew it was only so he wouldn’t have to endure the disgust on people’s faces when they saw his scars, but she found herself wishing he would have left the frightful thing off. She wanted to see his face.

As Sandor made the round, starting on the opposite side of the field, someone threw something at him. Whatever it was, he caught it in one hand and held it as he made his journey around the tourney arena. She couldn’t be sure what it was from so far away, but it appeared to be something of the most vibrant blue, almost like that of a cornflower’s petals. 

As he grew closer and closer to where she sat in the stands, Sansa was able to make out the details of a flower crown. He was still too far away to be certain, but the floral circlet appeared to be crafted from blue winter roses. As much as she wished for that crown to be hers, she hoped to the gods of both her father and mother that it didn’t serve to start another war with a Stark woman and winter roses at its center.

After what seemed like an eternity, his horse came to a stop directly in front of her. Behind his steel helm, his eyes widened as they met hers when he deposited the crown on top of her red locks. A chorus of gasps and murmurings began behind them as she was named the Queen of Love and Beauty by the infamous Hound. Before anyone could say anything, he spurred his horse into a gallop and rode away into what she assumed was the direction of his tent.

Nobody said anything to her about the crown atop her head, and she was glad for that. She heard the murmurings, though, and felt her small hands clench into fists at her sides at the words being tossed around behind her back.  _ Ugly mutt  _ and  _ stupid dog  _ were the most commonly used insults, but she heard a few more that made her blood boil. Before she could stop herself, she was standing and turning to tell some people off, but she found herself face-to-face with a red-faced, wide-eyed message bearer.

“My apologies, Your Highness, but I have a message for you from King Joffrey,” the boy stuttered as a bead of sweat slipped down his temple. He bowed before her, though she was certain he almost fell forward in the state he was in. “He wishes for an audience with Your Highnesses in the Great Hall at your earliest convenience.”

“We’d best be on our way, then,” Sansa replied through gritted teeth as she turned away from the infuriating crowd and anxious boy to haul Arya to her feet. The wolves rose to attention and followed the sisters as they carved a path through the crowd. “Let’s get this over with and leave this infernal city.”

“What do you think he wants with us?” Arya asked as they neared the steps to the Red Keep. Her brows were cinched together, leaving only wrinkles in the space between them. “Could it have anything to do with you being crowned by the Hound?”

“Perhaps,” Sansa answered in a solemn tone. Careful to make sure nobody was listening to their conversation, she leaned in close to her sister’s ear and said, “Joffrey is a very  _ jealous  _ boy, but he can only be jealous of something he will never have.”

Arya nodded as if she understood, but her troubled expression did not lift. Her face stayed pinched together as they walked through the crowds to the doors of the Red Keep. It shifted into one of consternation until they waltzed into the Great Hall. It was then, in that obscenely decorated hall, that both Stark girls let true horror show on their faces.

Joffrey’s whole entourage was there, alongside the king himself. Cersei, with her hair of gold and a look of victory upon her face. The Small Council, all looking as if the matter brought before them was the gravest of crimes. The Kingsguard, their swords gleaming and their white cloaks free of blood, for once.  _ Sandor _ , a piece of Sansa’s heart cracked at the sight of him with his helm held against his hip, carefully avoiding her gaze by keeping his eyes glued to the floor. And, finally, Gregor Clegane, the man whose blade was pressed against her kneeling father’s throat.

“I’m so glad you could join us, Princesses,” Joffrey sneered as he twirled his golden crown around a spindly finger and slouched against the arm of his throne. His eyes followed their gazes, noting how they were stuck to the sagging, defeated figure of their father. “Your father arrived early for our little party, but I suppose that means more fun for him.”

“This is an act of war,” Sansa declared as she took a mighty step forward only to come to a sudden halt as the Mountain tightened his grip around the King in the North. She held up her hands as if in surrender to show she wouldn’t come any closer. “If you kill the King in the North, you will only bring thousands of angry Northmen to your city gates. My brother, Robb, will be the one leading them.”

“Your brother is dead.” The words were said in a flat, placid tone as if they weren’t supposed to make an impact upon her, but Sansa stumbled back, wide-eyed and hurt, all the same time. Tears clogged her vision as Joffrey rose to his feet with a cruel smile twisting onto his lips. “In fact, aside from those in this room, your whole family is dead.”

“What?” Sansa uttered as she staggered back into Arya, who grabbed at Sansa’s forearm for comfort or support or both. “You're lying. You have to be lying.” She started shaking her head as words continued to fly out of her mouth, becoming mostly indistinguishable because of the loud sobs wracking Arya’s small frame. “They  _ aren’t _ dead. They can’t be.”

“See, I offered your bannermen, the Boltons, the reward of becoming the Wardens of the North if they simply killed the rest of you Starks,” Joffrey explained as if he were talking about baking a cake or solving a puzzle, not massacring an entire family. “It was so easy for them to become guests in Winterfell and slaughter your family in their beds.”

They hadn’t received word from Winterfell in weeks, but they had chalked it up to everyone being busy without the King to attend to important matters. Gods, though, all this time they’d been dead. At the hands of the Bolts, no less. She had always known that family had a predilection for sickening tendencies, but she had no idea they could do  _ that.  _ Murder a mother of five in her bed. Kill mere boys while they slept.

All for what? They became the Wardens of the North. A land that had been free for almost two decades was once again chained to a kingdom with no knowledge of its working, no care for its people and customs. While under King Joffrey’s rule, Sansa knew the North would suffer alongside the Six Kingdoms when it had been thriving for so long.

_ There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.  _

_ What happens when all the Starks are dead? _

Tears were still falling from her eyes, but Sansa stood tall as she said, “I would watch who you make enemies of, young king.” Her gaze darted between Cersei and Jaime before landing on the product of their incest once again. “I know secrets you do not wish to be revealed.”

It was a threat, plain and simple.

And it failed.

“Do you mean the secrets you exposed to my uncle in this little missive?” Joffrey asked as he turned his grin in Petyr Baelish’s direction.

Littlefinger raised a simple, folded note in his spindly fingers and began to read from it, “Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, I write to you with a matter of the utmost importance—,”

“Where did you get that?” Sansa asked as cold dread ran through her, but she already knew. Someone had shot down their raven or the Spider had betrayed them. Either way, now they knew why Stannis had never sent work back to them.

“My Master of Coin was convinced you Starks were up to no good,” Joffrey replied. “It seems he was right. It sickens me that you, Dear Rose, would conspire against me with such vicious lies.”

Although she was running out of ideas, Sansa knew she had to keep them talking while she tried to come up with some type of plan for her family to get out of this. If they were able to flee from King’s Landing, they could find refuge in the Riverlands with her mother’s family or at the Wall for a short while with her half-brother, Jon. All she needed to do was figure out how to get them out of this situation with everyone’s heads intact.

“Which one of you tried to have me killed, hmm?” Sansa asked, genuinely curious, as the wheels turned inside her head. “I suspected Joffrey since the incident, but I suppose it could have been any one of you.”

“Oh, it  _ was _ me, Dear Rose,” Joffrey admitted. “Someone gifted me that poison and I’d never actually seen it in action before.”

“How did you know I would survive?”

“I didn’t.”

“Why would you pretend to want me as your queen if you wanted me dead?” Sansa questioned as she tried to put the last pieces of her puzzle together.

“If you were alive and his queen, you would make a great piece to wield against the North,” Cersei answered for him as she took a long, slow sip of wine from a golden goblet. “If you were dead, well, the North wouldn’t be able to use you against us. It would have been a win for us, either way.”

“I’ve given you to Littlefinger, though, as a prize for his loyalty,” Joffrey exclaimed with a laugh of pure glee that stroked a shiver of fear down her spine. “He will do with you what he wants; kill you, rape you, whore you, marry you. It makes no difference to me.”

The next words out of anyone’s mouth weren’t hers. They were that of her little sister as she yelled, “You inbred cur! I’m going to pluck your eyes out with Needle and feed them to Nymeria for her midday meal!”

Joffrey’s smile finally disappeared as he stared at the young girl for a long time. As red began to creep up along his neck and into his cheeks, he shook his head at her and said, “You really shouldn’t speak to me like that when I hold your father’s life in my hands, should you?”

It was then that Sansa noticed the soft smile beginning to bloom on her father’s face as his eyes crept over to his daughters. He traced a path over Arya, looking as proud as any parent could be of their child, before turning his gaze on Sansa. The way his face grew so serious and severe made her think he was trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t understand what it was. Only that it was the last look he would ever give her.

Before she could call out and stop him, he jerked his body forward with such force that the Mountain’s blade buried itself in her father’s neck. Blood cascaded down his front like a waterfall, spilling onto the red stone floors of the Keep. If it had been anyone else, Sansa would have thought it fitting for him to die in the same hall as his father and brother, but this was her father. She didn’t want him to die at all.

Arya screamed.

Sansa did not. 

At that moment, she realized what her father had been trying to tell her with that look.

_ Run. _

Without a second thought, Sansa pulled her daggers from the hidden pockets she’d sewn into her gown’s skirt and shoved Arya behind her, covertly pushing her back towards the doors. Two knights charged towards her with their long, gleaming blades, preparing to capture the girls. She fought one off in the quick, cutting moves she had learned from Theon, who favored two long daggers in his fighting, but the other one managed to grab a hold of her arm and twist until one of her blades clattered to the floor.

Sansa cried out as his grip tightened around her wrist enough to leave behind a trail of bruises before the man’s eyes widened and blood began spurting from his mouth. He hand fell away from hers as he fell to the floor, shaking and quivering until the Stranger took him. Standing in his place, blood dripping from his sword, was the man who had given her hope and broken her heart all in a few hours: Sandor Clegane.

He shoved both girls back towards the door and yelled, “Run, now!”

Before she could think better of it, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him along with her as she raced through the doors behind Arya. The direwolves, who had been waiting outside the whole time, immediately took their places beside their mistresses and snapped at anyone that tried to come near them as they raced through the halls.

“Arya,” Sansa called out as they ran towards the stables. “We have to find Graige. Do you have any idea where he—,” She cut herself off as she saw the man running towards them with four horses trailing along behind him. “Thank the Old Gods for you, Graige. How’d you know we’d need horses.”

“I heard they were taking the king into custody from some gossiping soldiers. I also grabbed some coin for us to travel with. Why’s the Hound here?” Graige asked as the four of them began mounting the horses. “And where is King Eddard?”

“My father is dead,” Sansa answered stoically as she tried to avoid the emotions that came with such a statement. If she broke down here, they would never escape. “If we make it out of King’s Landing, I’ll tell you everything.” With that, she kicked her horse into a gallop and prayed they would make it past the city gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for what happened in this chapter. I hope you guys don't hate me because of it. I love Ned, but this had to happen for other things in the story to happen. Also, just because the Boltons say every Stark is dead, it doesn't mean that EVERY Stark is dead. Just like when Theon took Winterfell, some Starks have escaped, but I won't tell you guys which ones.
> 
> At least I didn't kill Graige, right?


	8. Chapter Eight

After nearly two days of non-stop riding, Sansa was finally able to convince the men to stop to rest and replenish. It had been a chore to get them to agree with her with both of them citing the fact that Joffrey surely had his best hunting party on their trail, but she pointed out that someone falling from their saddle out of exhaustion would certainly not be much help in staying ahead of whatever monsters, or  _ mountains,  _ were hunting them.

They found a clearing in the midst of the Kingswood that made for a decent place to make camp. Towering trees surrounding it on all sides, covering it in a much-needed shroud of shadows, and the barely noticeable sound of trickling water told them there was a water supply nearby. The only thing Sansa was worried about was how close to the Kingsroad it was. The men weren’t too worried about that, but she couldn’t help but feel overly cautious of any traveler that might hear them in their little sanctuary and happen upon them.

As the sun started to set below the trees, Sansa shivered at the chill winds that swept across their camp and thanked the Old Gods that Graige had been clever enough to hurriedly stash bedrolls in their saddlebags. Although they didn’t have the protection tents provided, the bedrolls would certainly be better than sleeping on the cold, hard ground entirely with only their cloaks to provide warmth in the bitter cold of the nights.

She worried, though, because he hadn’t been able to bring anything else. They had no supplies, other than their bedrolls. He hadn’t been able to sneak into the kitchens to pack away bread or cheese or fruit. Sandor was the only one who’d had a wineskin on them during the escape, so his flask was the only one they could fill with water to last the four of them. The only money they had came from Sandor and Graige’s own pockets and the fine gems of her necklace.

Almost as soon as she finished filling Sandor’s wineskin with water for them all to drink around the campfire Graige had built, Sansa heard a surprised shout and took off running in the direction of the camp. Her lone dagger was in the palm of her hand before she even knew she’d pulled it from the hidden pocket of her dress, but she quickly realized she didn’t need it when she broke through the trees to find Graige holding back what looked like laughter.

She tossed her dagger onto her bedroll as she strode across the clearing to where Sandor was kneeling in front of Arya, snapping his fingers in front of her face. As she approached, she realized her little sister’s face was unresponsive to his snapping, but she wasn’t too concerned. Any worries she might have had disappeared when she grew close enough to see that her sister’s eyes were glazed over in a milky white color that she knew was nothing to be troubled over.

“What in the bloody Seven Hells is wrong with her?” Sandor asked gruffly as he glanced over at Sansa for an explanation. His eyes narrowed in confusion as he gestured to her sister’s vacant stare. “Is she having some kind of spell?”

“Not exactly,” Sansa answered carefully as she kneeled down next to her sister and adjusted the position of her head so her neck didn’t cramp. She nibbled her bottom lip with her teeth as she tried to think of a suitable answer or a logical reason for her sister’s condition, but her heart clenched almost painfully at the thought of lying to him. “If I tell you something,” she found herself saying as she gazed over at him, “will you promise to never tell another living soul?”

“I don’t swear many vows, Little Bird, but I’m no gossiping washerwoman,” Sandor said plaintively, leveling with a stare as if she should know better than that of him. “I will say that I would never betray your trust.” He stood and brushed the dirt from his trousers. “You can decide whether or not you trust me enough to believe my words.”

“She’s a warg,” Sansa blurted before she could stop herself.

Sandor’s brows lifted in surprise. “What?”

“Have you ever heard the tales about skinchangers?” Sansa asked, reminding herself of Old Nan. The old woman’s rickety voice came to mind, whispering the stories she’d used to love.  _ ‘ave ya e’er heard the tales o’ skinchangers? Well, I’ll tell you all about ‘em.  _ She shook her head to clear it of those silly thoughts, knowing it would only bring her heartache to think more on it. “They’re very common in the North, though I suppose they wouldn’t be quite so popular in the South.”

“Aye, I’ve heard of them, Little Bird,” Sandor replied after a long, thoughtful moment. He sat down on a nearby log and patted the space next to him for her to join, which she did without question. “People who can put their minds in the bodies of animals, or so I was told by some drunk cunt or another. What of them?”

“Wargs are skinchangers, but they put their minds into the bodies of wolves,” Sansa explained as meticulously as she could, but she knew she wasn’t the best person to speak on the subject.  _ If only Bran were here,  _ she thought wistfully, remembering his passion for warging and seeing with his greensight. “The ability to warg has been passed down the Stark line for centuries, although the power doesn’t manifest in some of us.”

A surge of jealousy roared to life within her, but she pushed it down and stored it back into the bottle she’d been keeping it trapped in. She had no right to be jealous, or so her mother had said a thousand times. While all her siblings were able to warg into their wolves, some with more difficulty than others, Sansa had never managed to do it, no matter how much she practiced or wished for it. It just seemed warging was not in the cards for her.

“Can you  _ warg _ ?” Sandor asked clumsily, the word stumbling awkwardly off his tongue.

“No,” Sansa replied with a faux smile. It was the one she reserved for the lords and ladies that praised her siblings for their abilities—the few men and women her parents had allowed to know about the secret—when they told her that she was still very beautiful after she proclaimed that she had never been able to warg herself. “I’m just ordinary, I’m afraid.”

Sandor looked over at her curiously before saying, “You are many things, Sansa Stark, but ordinary is not one of them.” 

She heard the honesty in his voice, saw it in his eyes, but the truth was that she  _ was  _ ordinary and unremarkable compared to all her siblings. If it weren’t for the famed beauty she had inherited from her mother, there would be nothing special about her at all. Her mind whispered all the things she could do that the ladies of the South could not— _ you can speak on war strategies, you can wield a blade, you can defend yourself _ —but she told it to shut up and go away. After all, those were skills every Northern girl had under her belt.

“I really am,” Sansa argued weakly as she stood from the log and started to hurry over to Graige, ready to discuss what all had happened in the throne room.

Before she could get very far, she felt a large hand wrap around her arm and held her in place. Sandor spun her around to look her in the eyes as he said, “You’re the godsdamned Queen in the North, Sansa Stark.” His words hit her with the impact of a punch, but he didn’t seem to care about her astonishment. “Nothing about that is ordinary.”

_ Queen in the North? Me?  _ Sansa thought as stunned silence overtook the conversation on her end. She hadn’t thought about what it meant, the massacre of her family. Even as they rode for nearly two days, she hadn’t given a single thought about what that meant. A part of her—she tried to keep that part of her shoved down in the darkest recesses of her body because of how selfish and horrible it truly was selfish—thrilled at the thought of finally being a queen. It had been her childhood dream to one day rule over her whole kingdom. That was before she learned that her brothers would always inherit the lands before her, no matter what the order of birth was.

Now, she didn’t want it. Gods be damned, she didn’t want to be anywhere near the Northern throne. Being queen meant making decisions. Deciding who lives and who dies. Being queen meant turning into something she was not. In times like this, being queen meant being ruthless enough to lead thousands to slaughter in the hope that a mighty few would win. Being queen meant losing a part of herself she feared was already long gone.

“I’m not the queen,” Sansa whispered as she tried to keep the bile clawing its way up her throat back down in her stomach where it belonged. She didn’t realize she was shaking her head until she felt Sandor’s hands on her cheeks, holding it still. There were tears on her cheeks, surely, but she couldn’t feel them. Everything inside of her felt numb, except for the sickness churning in her stomach. “I  _ can’t _ be the queen, Sandor.”

Without the hesitation that accompanied most men before touching her, Sandor pulled her small, trembling figure against his chest and began brushing his hand through her untamed tresses. He shushed her with soothing words that she couldn’t understand in her state of duress, but the words themselves mattered little to her when she knew this was probably the gentlest he’d been with a person in a long time, if ever.

Sansa sobbed against his chest, finally releasing the tidal waves of tears she’d let sit to build and build over the course of the past few days. She clenched her tiny fingers around his leather jerkin as she held him against her with a desperation that would have shocked her septa into a fit as she grieved for her lost family. She knew they—her parents, her brothers, the guards and servants completely loyal to House Stark—were all dead. 

Just as she knew it was all her fault.

So many deaths, all this sorrow, could have been avoided if she had just stayed behind in Winterfell, but she  _ had  _ to see the South once in her life. She’d begged and begged her parents to allow her along until they were tired of hearing her voice. If she stayed behind, she might have been awake during the Bolton intrusion. She could have warned everybody and helped fight off the bloody traitors before anything truly bad happened.

Even in King’s Landing, she had made the wrong choices for her family. She should have just agreed to marry Joffrey from the start. Any well-bred lady of noble blood would have accepted immediately, knowing the honor it would bring her house and name, but she couldn’t just be the good lady her mother had tried so hard to make her into. She had to insult a king by being reluctant and inattentive during every single one of their outings.

Without all of that, Sansa had messed up even more. She never should have told her father about Cersei’s affair because she knew what he would do about it. If there was one thing she knew about her father, it was that he was the most honorable man in Westeros. She should have known he wouldn’t give up until his friend’s legacy was secured in a worthy fashion. She should have just told him that he was being overly suspicious, that it wasn’t their business to get into, that they should just finalize their treaties and leave.

No matter how somebody tried to twist the tales, Sansa knew she was to blame for everything. She couldn’t be the Queen in the North when every decision she made, every path she took, brought about death and destruction. She wondered, numbly, if perhaps a witch had placed a curse upon her, but she knew this was simply her doing.  _ Stupidity, _ Sansa thought snidely to herself,  _ that’s my curse. _

_ I’m a stupid, stupid girl. _

_ I never learn. _

_ I’m the same foolish child I’ve always been— _

“Of course you can be the queen, Sansa,” Sandor whispered against her ear, cutting off her mental tirade. She could feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear, making her skin tingle with every exhale. It left her with a heady breathlessness that shook her to her very core and brought her back from the brink of self-deprecation. “You’re the smartest person I know. The bravest, too.”

“You think so?” Sansa asked as a new wave of tears filled her eyes, but these weren’t tears of grief or sorrow. She wasn’t sure what they were, to be honest, but they seemed to begin with the frantic beating of her heart and the wild fluttering of butterflies in her stomach.

“I  _ know _ so,” was his only reply, but it was enough.

She sniffled a little as her lips raised into the beginnings of the softest, shyest smile. Her lips opened as she prepared to thank him for his words and the comfort he provided, but she was interrupted by Graige yelling out, “Are you two done yet? Because I have questions.”

Sansa rolled her eyes before turning to her loyal guard with her hands on her hips and asking, “What, exactly, do you want to know, Graige?”

“What in the Seventh Hell happened in the Great Hall?” he asked as blunt as the edge of a practice sword. He dropped the logs he’d been carrying into the fire he’d just barely managed to start and dusted off his hands. “I have heard nothing about it from either of you during the past few days, even when we were barely trotting and could easily keep a conversation.”

Sansa bit her lip as she deliberated on how to deliver the tale gently, but she decided there was no true way to tell him what happened in a moderately tender way. She launched into the story without preamble, repeating what was said word-for-word, and only stuttered when she got to her father’s death. “He—,” she had to blink away a new onslaught of tears before continuing, “He fell upon the Mountain’s blade willfully. I think, no, I’m sure he meant to provide a distraction for us to escape.”

Graige’s heartache was worn on his face. Most men hid their feelings beneath a mask of indifference, but Graige had never been able to master that skill. There was always a smile on his face when he was happy, and a frown when he was not. This, though, was crestfallen. His eyes sparkled with sorrow as his lips trembled at the corners. She thought he might be trying not to fall apart, but she wouldn’t blame him if he did.

He had been with her family for years. He had been outside the room while Catelyn gave birth to Rickon, although he hadn’t been allowed inside with the rest of the family when the babe let his first cries loose into the world. When Sansa turned six and ten, he had gifted her with the dagger she still kept in the hidden pockets of her skirts. Her brothers thought of him as their own, no matter if he was blood or not. He had a right to break into a thousand pieces if he so wished.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” Graige murmured as he reached out to clasp his hands around her own, holding them tightly within his grasp. She looked over at him in shock to find him completely sincere. “I cannot imagine the pain you must be going through right now.”

“Oh, Graige,” Sansa breathed before pulling him into a hug so tight she wondered if he could breathe through it. “I know you  _ can _ imagine the pain because you feel it as well.” She knew the wetness seeping through the shoulder of her gown was from his tears, but she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t mention it. “You were as close to my brothers as if they were your own.”

“I should have been there to protect them,” he murmured against her shoulder as he wrapped his own arms around her, holding her just as tightly as she held him. “I would have killed every one of those Bolton bastards to save them.”

“I know,” Sansa replied in a trembling whisper. “I know, I know.”

“Robb was to marry that Frey girl in two moons,” Graige mumbled mournfully as he slowly pulled away from Sansa and lowered his face into his hands, hiding the red eyes she knew she would find upon his face. “He said I was going to help him teach his sons and daughters how to wield swords like the knights in all of those bloody songs.”

Sansa crumpled again at the realization that she would never meet her brother’s children. She had been so excited for Roslin Frey to be her goodsister, too. She had been working on a shawl for the girl to wear during their wedding ceremony. It was to be the blue of the Frey sigil. A thousand wonderful dreams for the future had been taken from her with the deaths of her brothers.

There would be no children that looked like Robb running around the courtyard of Winterfell with their auburn curls bouncing upon their heads. She would never see Bran become a knight like he’d dreamed of for so long. Rickon,  _ gods _ , would never grow up. That was perhaps the saddest thing in the midst of all this tragedy. Her baby brother would never get the chance to decide what dreams he wished to chase. She would never know what he looked like as a grown man. Bran was close enough that she could picture it, but Rickon still had all the baby-fat in his cheeks and the wild, unruly curls of an infant in his hair.

“I’m sorry, Graige,” Sansa said after a long moment of silence. He turned his head up to look at her with wide, shocked eyes, but she couldn’t bring herself to hold his stare. “They are all dead because of me and—,” she stopped as her voice wobbled a bit, but she swallowed past the lump forming in her throat and plowed on, “and I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself.”

“What in all the Seven Hells are you talking about, Sansa?” Graige exclaimed fiercely. After a long silence on her part, he said, “Look at me, Sansa.” When she didn’t look up at him, he grabbed her shoulders and shook them harshly until she did. “Nothing, absolutely  _ nothing _ , that happened in that fucking hellhole was your fault.”

Sansa shook her head. 

It was her fault. 

She knew it was. 

“I made so many stupid choices—,”

“It doesn’t matter what stupid choices you made, Sansa,” Graige snapped as he shook her again to put a halt to her words. His face was red from some unbidden rage he seemed to be trying to keep a lock on. “Whatever happened in King’s Landing,  _ everything _ that happened in King's Landing, was Joffrey’s fault. No one else’s. He gave the orders.  _ It _ .  _ Was _ .  _ His _ .  _ Fault _ .”

“But—,”

“No, Sansa.” Graige shook his head. “It was his fault, not yours.”

“He’s right, girl,” Sandor said gruffly from where he sat across the clearing, as far away from the fire as he could possibly get. “That inbred cunt was a puppet master pulling every string he could find just to see the chaos he could create.”

It took Sansa a moment to let it sink in, but, when it did, it dropped like an anchor in the pit of her stomach. She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes tightly, forcing back another surge of emotions she just couldn’t handle. Logically, she knew they were right, but she still felt as if she was guilty of something. Maybe she was just guilty because she survived when so much of her family was dead. Maybe she knew it would be better if any of the others had lived in her place.

“I know this isn’t the time,” Graige began in a hesitant voice after she was silent for a long, unmeasured amount of time, “but we need to figure out what we’re going to do. What’s our plan here, Your Majesty?”

That, right there, was what broke her. 

_ Your Majesty. _

“I don’t know,” Sansa muttered and shrugged as a familiar numbness began to creep its way back into her body, covering her in the delicious feeling of absolutely nothing. “Perhaps we’ll all get captured and die by Joffrey’s hand.”

“We need to take back Winterfell,” Graige argued loudly. He was bristling with aggression, but she couldn’t care less as she stared into the flames and let herself be desensitized by all of her damned grief. “Do you really want the North under the control of the Boltons?”

Her numbness fell away with the reminder of the men holding her home. Images of flayed men shot across her mind, forcing her to question whether that had been the fate of her brothers. Had they been flayed alive like wild animals? Had they died instantly? Or were their deaths long and cruel and horrible in ways she could never possibly imagine? With the Boltons, one could never be too sure.

“You act like we could do something about it,” Sansa said. “We couldn’t.”

“You’re the Queen in the North. Of course, we can—,”

“The Kings and Queens in the North died with Eddard Stark,” Sansa snarled a little too forcefully. “The lords and ladies won’t raise their banners for me. I don’t have the right parts between my legs, and you know it.”

“They will,” Graige insisted passionately as he rose to his feet. He looked down at her with flames in his eyes that outmatched the fire behind him in ferocity. “You are the trueborn daughter of King Eddard and Queen Catelyn Stark. You have the blood of the wolf. They will rise to the challenge and kneel before you, their Queen in the bloody, fucking North.”

Sansa wanted to protest or tell him he was crazy, but, before she could even open her mouth, Lady trotted over to her with the pride only a direwolf could maintain in their walk. As she stood before Sansa, towering over her at the height of a small pony, her front slowly sunk to the ground in what could only be described as a bow. Her ears flattened against her head as the tip of her snout touched the dirt between Sansa’s feet.

“The blood of the wolf,” Graige repeated in awe.

Sansa reached out and traced her fingers along the fine fur atop Lady’s head as she thought about how insane it would be to even consider this. And yet, her lips moved of their own accord and said, “Tell me how we’re going to take back Winterfell.”

“We should go to Stannis—,”

“No,” Sansa interrupted Graige’s immediate answer. “I have a feeling that Joffrey will make sure any true competition to his claim is taken care of as soon as possible.” If he believed even a kernel of what that missive said, he would want any true Baratheons dead. “Stannis and Renly Baratheon will soon be corpses, not kings.”

“You could go to your mother’s family in the Riverlands,” Sandor suggested gruffly. “Aren’t their words _family_ , _something,_ _something_?”

“ _ Family, Duty, Honor, _ ” Sansa corrected. “No, we can’t go to them. They’ll protect us, for sure, but hiding in Riverrun won’t help us take back the North.”

“The North, then,” Graige said.

“No, the Boltons will have hunting parties searching day and night for us.” Sansa’s brows scrunched in the middle as she tried to figure out what the solution was a place where she could see no solutions. “We wouldn’t make it to a loyal house before being taken into custody and executed or worse.”

“What do  _ you _ propose, Your Majesty?” Sandor asked, looking very put-out by her rejections of every idea they put forth.

Sansa sighed inwardly because she had no helpful suggestions. She turned her gaze up to the night sky, charting the path of constellations her father had once pointed out to her and her siblings. She found Bran the Builder easily, knowing that he was always to the left of the dragon-shaped constellation that represented Balerion the Black Dread—

“Have either of you heard the stories about Daenerys Targaryen?” Sansa asked as a small, probably ridiculous plan began to form in her mind.

“Heard plenty of Joffrey’s whinging about her not dying after he sent his favorite assassins after her,” Sandor said with a shrug. “Not much else.”

“She’s ruling over Slaver’s Bay, you know. They say she has three dragons the size of ships.”

Sandor snorted. “They also say I eat babies.”

“How else did a teenage girl conquer Slaver’s Bay, if not with dragons at her disposal?” Sansa asked casually.

“Get to your point, Little Bird.”

“We should go to Slaver’s Bay and align with Daenerys,” Sansa stated, immensely proud of having come up with the idea. “She’ll need an alliance to take the Six Kingdoms, and we need the alliance to take Winterfell.”

Both men looked at each other before bursting into fits of laughter. They pointed out every flaw in her plan, argued that it would never work, but Sansa had already decided on her course of action. They could follow her if they wanted. If not, she would do it alone. Finally, they fell silent, which she took for begrudging agreement.

A few minutes later, Nymeria returned with a few rabbits hanging from her teeth by their long ears and Arya awoke from her unconscious state. Graige roasted the rabbits over his fire after watching Sansa skin them with a look of silent approval. They all ate in companionable silence, except for Arya. The younger girl asked a thousand different questions of everybody, including Sandor because she still didn’t understand why he was with them.

Neither did Sansa, though.

She waited until both Graige and Arya had lulled themselves into deep slumbers before she went over to him. He had volunteered for the first watch, so she found him sitting with his back against a tree, sharpening his blade on some whetstone he must’ve had in his pocket.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Queens don’t ask to ask questions,” Sandor rumbled. “They just ask.”

“Why are you still with us?”

It was a simple question, but it seemed to hold the weight of worlds as it hung between them. She thought he might never answer when he finally said, “Because I wish to be.”

“Why do you wish to be?” Sansa countered.

“Because.”

Sansa reached out without meaning to and grasped his chin in a shaking hand. She turned his chin until his eyes could look at nothing but her face. His breath warmed her cheeks from how close their faces were, but she couldn’t bring herself to think about how good it felt when she had a task at hand. “Just tell me why you helped us,” she begged.

“Because of you, Sansa,” he whispered with more than a little reluctance. “I didn’t do it for Arya or Graige or your father. I helped you guys for you.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I was sick of serving cruel masters,” Sandor spat as he finally pulled his face out of her grip and turned it away so she couldn’t see it. “Maybe I wanted to serve someone good for the first time in my godsforsaken life.”

“Why me, though?” Sansa asked carefully, knowing that he was the closest to a rabid dog at this moment that a person could get. One wrong move might set him into the rage the Hound was known for. “Why would you choose to serve me?”

“You’re the only good person I know,” was his reply, and it broke something inside of her.

“There are plenty of good people—,”

“None that looked right at me from the first moment and didn’t care,” Sandor protested in a voice that spoke of so much pain and hurt that it nearly took her breath away. “I thought you were blind or just simple when you first saw my face and didn’t react, but then you didn’t call me an ugly dog and you sang the prettiest song about honor and bravery.”

“That doesn’t make me a good person,” Sansa insisted. “It just makes me a decent one.”

“Then you’re the only decent person I’ve met,” Sandor said after a long moment. Finally, he turned back to face her with a small smile trembling on his lips. “And I’ll gladly serve you until whatever end the world sees fit for me, even if it means facing fucking dragons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, long chapter, LOTS of feelings! I'm glad this one is over with. I rewrote it four times before I was finally somewhat happy with it. I still have a few unanswered questions, like "Where in the Seven Hells is Stranger?". Don't think I've forgotten about my favorite warhorse! I'm sorry if Sansa annoys some people in this, but we have to remember that she watched her father die in front of her eyes and heard the news that her family was brutally murdered in their sleep by psychopaths. I'd be feeling a little unstable, too. She goes through a lot of emotions in this chapter as she tries to process her grief. And yeah, she has a little bit of survivor's guilt. Don't worry, she and Arya will have a chit-chat about their feelings. It'll probably be in the next chapter. Until next time, be safe, stay healthy, and keep reading on.


	9. Chapter Nine

The golden light of the rising sun woke Sansa before any of her companions. She sat up at the edge of their camp and watched over the clearing, noting how woefully unprepared they would have been should someone come upon them for an attack. There was supposed to be someone on watch at all times, but it appeared Graige had neglected to wake either of the girls after his turn. He’d fallen asleep with his back against a great oak, his sword laid out across his lap.

Sansa knew she would have to talk to him about that. He would see it as his duty and his alone to watch over the last of the Starks, but that didn’t mean they should receive any special treatment, especially considering the dangers of their current dilemma. No matter how well-rested she felt, someone should have woken her for a watch shift, even if she grumbled and complained about waking so early without anything to shock her sister into action. Herbal tea usually brought her out of her exhausted states when back in Winterfell, but they only had water and rabbit stew.

Without thinking more on the subject, Sansa rose and stretched her arms above her head, groaning a little as her body ached at the movement. Sleeping in a bedroll, she realized, was only slightly better than sleeping on the ground. It didn’t help that she was used to feather beds and soft furs accompanying her into the land of dreams and nightmares, not sharp rocks pricking at her spine and the approaching Winter’s chill seeping through the dirt and into her veins.

A sigh barely managed to scrape its way past her lips when she heard the smallest sound. It could have been the squeak of a field mouse, but she knew where the noise came from when she spied her sister’s shoulders shaking from inside her bedroll. Anyone else would have thought the young girl was shivering from the cold, but Sansa knew that her sister felt little cold after years of spending her nights beneath Weirwood trees with their younger brother, Rickon.

Sansa approached on soft feet and settled her legs beneath her bottom as she sat on the ground beside her sister’s bedroll. Her hand shook slightly as she reached out to gently squeeze a bony shoulder with the gentlest touch she could muster with her trembling grip. “It’s alright to cry, Arya,” she whispered softly as she reached out to stroke a strand of dark hair away from her sister’s pale face. “Nobody will think any less of you for grieving for our family.”

Arya was silent for a long while, even after her shoulders stopped shaking beneath Sansa’s firm hand. She contemplated leaving, letting her sister grieve in her own way, but she didn’t even make it to her feet when Arya rolled around to face her, eyes red and bleary from tears. “I should have been there, Sans. I could have fought with them,  _ for _ them.”

“If you were there, Arya, you would be dead now,” Sansa tried to reason, even though she had said the same thing the night before. “You would not have made a difference.”

“I could have,” Arya protested weakly, but Sansa couldn’t hear the typical argumentative edge in her sister’s tone.

“No, you couldn’t have,” Sansa said. “Neither could I.”

“We could have saved Father,” Arya whispered softly as she rolled back onto her back and looked up at the sky as night began to give way to day's first light. “I think about it now, you know? How we could have saved him. I would have fought the guards as a distraction while you ran for him and freed him from the—,”

“From the Mountain, Arya,” Sansa interjected bluntly, though she felt shameful for her temper when she saw her sister’s hopes fall away. “I couldn’t have fought him off if I tried.”

“You could have tried,” Arya sniped sourly.

“Would you prefer to be alone in this world?” Sansa snapped in response. She tried to cool her tone, but it could not be helped. “I would have died alongside Father. You would have been left alone to fight a war that someone your age should have no part in.”

Arya scoffed and rolled her eyes like the petulant child Sansa knew she still was deep down whenever things went wrong. “I’m five and ten, Sansa, and I know how to fight—,”

“Being able to fight has little to do with winning wars,” Sansa stated slowly as she remembered their father’s tales of the uprising against the Targaryens. None of them were filled with the glory she heard in some men's voices when they spoke of war and battle. His stories told of gore and cruelty and blood and sweat and the hardest choices a person could ever make. “The coming war is going to take more than someone your age should be willing to give.”

“If the only thing I ever do in this life is win this war so that you may live without the guilt and horror of what is to come,” Sansa paused to reach across and clasp her palms around her sister’s shaking hands, gently squeezing her reassurance into them, “I will gladly pass into whatever world lies beyond with a smile on my face to know that you will have peace.”

Tears shone in her sister’s eyes, though she knew them to be a mixture of her grief and despair and love. They melted into a hug without words, holding each other through the waves of heartache that crashed over them. She hushed her sister and placed kisses atop her dark head of hair as she felt her salty tears staining through the thin fabric of her ruined gown. Although she knew the words were only lies meant to make people feel better, she still whispered sweet commiserations into Arya’s ears, telling her that their family was in a better place, even if she didn’t believe so herself.

The men were starting to awaken by the time Arya pulled away from her and dabbed at her wet, red-rimmed eyes with the dirty sleeve of her gown. A couple of sniffles later and Arya was rising from her bedroll and holding out Needle with an appraising eye. “It’s been a while since we trained together, hasn’t it, Sans? Would you like to spar a bit before we ride again?”

Sansa studied her with wary eyes, wondering if she should ask how she was feeling, but she knew this was just the way Arya was. She moved on from her pain and strived for a new purpose. That’s not to say she forgot the sorrow that lived in her bones. She still knew it was there, still felt it, but she learned to live with it. She wondered if that was what made her sister so resilient and wild, the heft and strength of the emotions swirling about within her small body.

“I suppose,” Sansa answered with a reluctant sigh as she pulled her own blade out, inwardly reminding herself that she needed to find another dagger to complete the set since she lost the last one in the Great Hall of King’s Landing. “You’ll have to go easy on me, though. I don’t have my own weapon, remember?”

“You think Joffrey’s men are going to take it easy on you just because you ask?” Arya sassed with a snort as she walked over to portion of the clearing they’d left untouched.

“No, I think they’ll be surprised to find a woman fighting back and their shock will be paid with the price of their lives,” Sansa explained.

“That only works on the first two or three men, you know that.”

“I know,” Sansa replied hesitantly. As much as she wanted a light sparring match, just to stretch her sore muscles, she knew Arya was right. It wouldn’t hurt to practice for a real fight, not some play fight. With a sigh, she decided to go along with her sister. “Don’t go easy on me, then.”

Arya’s smile widened into something almost feline as she said, “With pleasure.”

Sansa and Arya circled each other, dancing lightly upon their feet with a lightness their Septa would have been proud of if they were putting it to use in anything but fighting. Both were studying the footwork of the other, seeking weaknesses that they knew were already there. While Sansa had a habit of favoring her left leg after an old injury to her right knee from her childhood, her younger sister guarded her right side too closely, exposing her left to the enemy’s blades.

“You still favor that leg of yours,” Arya pointed out as she dashed forward with a long slice of her skinny blade, but the attack was evaded by Sansa jumping to the side. “It’s going to be your undoing one of these days.”

“Says the one that never guards her left,” Sansa snarked lightly as she lunged forward with a short jab at her sister’s side, though not close enough to actually make contact with her abdomen. It was still close enough that Arya had to stumble a couple of steps to the right to avoid the hit. “That’s going to be  _ your _ undoing.”

“Ha,” Arya retorted with an annoyed snort.

Their sparring match continued with no injuries being made, though there were plenty of stabs and slices. It worried Sansa that her moves were sluggish, compared to how swift she had been before traveling to King’s Landing. She supposed the heavy, flowing skirts of her gown could have been one of the reasons behind her languid movements, but she knew it was from how little she trained during the journey and through her whole stay in the capital city.

Before her thoughts could get her into trouble, Sansa whipped around just as Arya pounced upon her with that long, skinny blade. Their blades met in the air between them with a startling clink. Sansa held her blade horizontally against Arya’s sword, blocking the downward arc of her piercing slice. Though her sister was much stronger from keeping up with her training, Sansa managed to hold the defense without straining her inactive arms too much.

After almost a minute of grunting at the pressure, Sansa dropped her dagger as she fell to her knees and rolled away from her sister’s plunging weapon. She grabbed her dagger before it hit the ground and brought it up in a sweeping arc. The tip rested against Arya’s side, right between the fourth and fifth ribs, as Sansa looked up at her with what could only be described as a smirk forming on her lips.

“I think I won,” Sansa remarked as she slid her dagger back into the pocket she kept it in. She relished the glare her sister sent her way, knowing it hid a begrudgingly large amount of pride. “I’ll just accept your surrender next time, you know.”

“Next time,” Arya said as she grinned wildly, twirling Needle with the deft skill of an artist, “I’ll be accepting  _ your _ surrender, Sweet Sister.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Come,” she said as she looped her arm around Arya’s skinny, pointy elbow, “let’s see what the men have gotten up to.”

“No doubt grousing about what the hard ground did to their backs,” Arya muttered.

Sansa snickered lightly to herself, holding back any true laughter. They strode into the little clearing they’d slept in the night before to find Sandor arranging his saddle atop the black stead he’d chosen as his own. Graige sat nearby, eating the leftover meat from the rabbits Arya hunted down. He passed what was left of the rabbit into their waiting hands as they sat next to him on the long, fallen log.

“We heard steel on steel,” Graige said after a moment. “I assumed it was you two practicing.”

Sansa greedily ate the last of her rabbit, wishing it was veal, and wiped the grease from her lips before answering. “We thought some light sparring would be good for the both of us,” she said as she carefully wrapped the rabbit bones in the handkerchief she’d had in her pocket during their escape. “Turns out, I am the better fighter when it comes to the Stark sisters.”

“Only for this morning,” Arya objected as she shoved her own rabbit bones into the pocket of her gown without ceremony, uncaring if the grease stained the precious cloth. She jostled Sansa to the side with a pointed elbow. “We’ll see how you fare on the morrow.”

“Yes, we shall,” Sansa replied sweetly.

“It is good you are practicing,” Graige praised them. “These woods are well-known for the bandits lurking amongst them.”

“So we’ve heard.”

“Father told us that a thousand times,” Arya said with a slight chuckle, though her face morphed into grief as she realized Father would never tell them anything again. She sniffled and wiped her snotty nose on the sleeve of her gown. “He was always warning us of stupid things like that.”

Sansa sighed as she wrapped an arm around her sister’s shoulders. Talk of their father was sobering and the pain was much too fresh for her young sister. “What harbor are we to set sail from, hmm? I’m afraid I am slightly unfamiliar with this part of the continent.”

All eyes fell on Sandor. His own eyes widened for a second before he seemed to realize he was the only one with the knowledge they needed. They were all of the North with a short supply of knowledge on the different settlements of the South. Not only was he Southron, but he had spent much of his life traveling around the Six Kingdoms for Tywin Lannister and later, for his grandson, Joffrey. If anyone knew of a harbor, it would be him.

Sandor huffed a sigh as he tightened the straps of his saddle around his horse’s belly. “We should be able to find a small, fishing village around Massey’s Hook.” His gaze turned far-off in a direction even farther south than they already were. “We’re about three or four days off from the Hook, if I’m right.”

“Will there not be soldiers watching the Hook?” Graige asked.

“The Hook is not as interesting as some other parts of the Six Kingdoms,” Sandor remarked with a shrug. “Joffrey never took an interest in the villages along that way.”

Sansa tilted her head to the side, considering all the knowledge she had of Massey’s Hook. The lands, as far as she knew, were ruled by House Massey at Stonedance. She did not know which Lord Massey ruled the Hook, but she knew of an old squire of Robert Baratheon’s with the name of Justin Massey. Perhaps, if she did not know of them, they would not know of her. “Massey’s Hook it is, then.”

They departed from the clearing within an hour, scared to dilly-dally any longer. Fear of the Mountain was upon each of them like a black cloud, sitting upon their shoulders and waiting for them to slip-up. He wouldn’t give them a chance to escape or beg for their lives. She was wanted by Joffrey to be Littlefinger’s pet, that she knew to be true, but what of Arya and Graige and Sandor? They would surely be put to death, executed.

Although, she had to admit, it would be stupid for Joffrey to give one Stark sister to a man he could hardly trust and kill the other. No, Joffrey must have some plan for Arya. Perhaps he intended to marry her himself. They were of the same age, but Joffrey liked pretty, soft ladies with handkerchiefs of flowers and dresses of silk. That would never be Arya, no matter how much he tried to beat it into her.

Might be he did intend to kill her.

Might be he was truly a stupid boy.

Sansa stopped herself from thinking further along those lines. She knew what she would do if she were captured. Her dagger would find a home in her own heart before she allowed Littlefinger into her bed. The man was certainly not the worst to think of as her husband, but any man was better than the one that orchestrated the deaths of her entire family. But, no, she would not live to see her wedding day if she was captured, that much was certain.

Sandor’s deep, rumbling laugh broke Sansa out of her morose thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder to find the man caressing his horse’s neck with an affectionate pat and glaring at the black beast whenever he attempted to nip at his fingers. There was a sort of kinship there she hadn’t expected to see so soon in a new horse. She slowed her white mare until they were riding next to each other.

“You are quite fond of this horse,” Sansa commented lightly as she tried to reach over, but she found herself shrinking back when the horse threatened to take off a finger. “I’m afraid the same cannot be said of me.”

“I should be fond of this horse,” Sandor replied. “He’s mine.”

“Well, of course,” Sansa said. “You chose him—,”

Sandor shook his head and cut off her words with his own, “No, he’s mine from King’s Landing and before.” He traced a finger along a number of different scars along the stallion’s black neck. “This is my warhorse, Stranger. I’ve had him for years.”

“Well,” Sansa exclaimed, eyes wide and mouth open, “that is a great coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Not a coincidence, Your Grace,” Graige grumbled as he shot the horse a mean glare. “The damned thing nearly tore down the stables until I decided to bring ‘im with me.” The horse neighed grumpily at the man. “Almost took a couple of my fingers along the way, too.”

“That’s Stranger for you,” Sandor replied, sounding proud of his horse’s aggression.

“It seems your bond with the horse is quite strong—,” Sansa’s words came to an abrupt halt as an arrow whizzed out of nowhere and sunk itself into Sandor’s shoulder, drawing a strangled grunt from his lips.

Arya raced up on her own horse and started to grab the stem of the arrow, but Sansa stopped her with a panicked squeal. “Don’t, Arya! He’ll bleed out if you do!” That was one of the first lessons Maester Luwin taught her when her mother insisted she learned the art of healing, hoping that those lessons would take precedence over those of fighting. “Leave it in!”

“I’m fine, girl,” Sandor spat as he reached behind his back and broke the stem of the arrow so only a small portion was sticking out of his back. “How ‘bout we fight these cunts before we worry about my pretty back?”

“Aye,” Graige agreed.

Sansa nodded and whistled for her direwolf as more arrows went flying. Lady came to her side with a short pounce and got into a defensive position, growling and snarling as she never had before. Her wolf was gentle and kind and sweet until someone threatened her master. Whoever these men were, they were about to meet their makers.

“Lady, attack,” she said softly. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Arya doing the same from astride her horse. Both wolves took off at the same time, fast and nimble for being so large. They disappeared into the woods as screams erupted from the trees.

Sansa dismounted and had her dagger in the palm of her hand in seconds. Without any preamble, she ran into the woods after the direwolves. She wanted to know who attacked them before there was nothing left to see of the men. A litany of prayers rang through her head, pleading with the Old Gods in the hopes that she would find Gregor Clegane with his stomach torn from his body, but she found no such thing.

The wolves feasted upon the bodies of stick-thin thieves. She called them off, hating for them to get a taste of human flesh, as she knelt before one, noting the gold of skin. He was Dornish, or so she guessed. She wondered what he was doing in the Crownlands before realizing she didn’t really care. Though she held a hint of remorse, she pocketed the few coins in his pocket and the weapon at his side for herself.

_ I’ll need it far more than a dead man,  _ she reassured herself.

Sansa did the same with the five other men, telling herself that the coin would come to far more use in her hands than it would in theirs. At best, some poor beggar would come across their bodies and pilfer it themselves. At worst, it would be Joffrey’s men. Either way, Sansa needed the coin for the journey across the sea and the weapons would do far more good with her than with Joffrey’s men.

She was about to head back to her friends when she realized she had a collection of daggers and swords in her arms, but there was no bow to be seen. There was an archer, that much she was certain of, but he was not amidst the dead. Just then, there was a quiet rustling of leaves above her head. Her eyes shot up to the branches above her to meet the eyes of a young man as he loosed an arrow that sunk into the skin above her breast.

Sansa stumbled back a few steps as blood began pouring from her wound, staining the front of her dress in dark crimson. She heard a scream that sounded almost inhuman and realized only after the noise died down that it was her own. Her legs fell out from under her as she collapsed onto her back, hands reached for the arrow wound, hoping to keep pressure on it until her friends found her. That was what needed to be done, her brain told her.

The pain was unlike anything she’d ever felt. It was as brutal as the summer sun of Dorne, harsh and withstanding as it burned through her veins, scorching whimpers from her lips. It was cold, too, like the winter winds howling across the North, freezing everything in their path. She wanted to pull the arrow out and be done with it, but she held on for Arya. There was no way she would be so selfish as to leave her sister alone in this war, not if she had a choice in it.

Sansa heard a muffled yell of her name as Sandor’s face came into sight, burned and beautiful. Her hand rose of its own accord to stroke the scarred skin of his face, but he grabbed it within his own and dropped it back to her stomach as he lifted her into his arms. She heard him yelling something, but she couldn’t make out the words over the waves crashing over and over in her ears, drowning out all sound.

Black dots burst to life across her vision, blocking out the way Sandor’s dark hair swayed across his face as they rode. She suspected they were on his horse, though she couldn’t be certain. She tried to blink, but that only made the dots worse. Her whole body was splitting with such immense pain that she couldn’t help but to let out a couple of pained screams and whimpers, even as Sandor tried to shush her.

Sansa knew she had to keep quiet, knew they were being hunted, but her body wouldn’t respond to her call for silence. The pain wanted her to scream and cry and ache until there was no more noise available for her body to make. Even knowing what the black dots could do to her, she let them creep along her vision until she succumbed to them, hoping the darkness they melted into was not the last thing she ever saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super sorry about this, but it is necessary for a timing thing that will allow for an awesome character we all know and love to group up with our heroes. Anywho, I hope I did okay with the Sansa/Arya bonding moments. I hope you guys are healthy and happy! Thanks for reading!


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